“Get up out of here!” Brockey exclaimed, and he jerked the detective out of the chair.
Carter struggled from side to side, and his acting was perfect.
No one in the place paid any attention to him and Brockey except Darwin.
“Shay, ain’t chue a-goin’ t’ lea’ up?” Carter mumbled, and he caught hold of Brockey by the arms, to steady himself.
“Where do you live?” Brockey asked.
“Nowhere.”
The rascal was entirely deceived. He firmly believed that the detective was nothing more than a drunken “bum.” He let go his hold on him, and, with a grunt of well-feigned disgust, Carter staggered out of the den.
Brockey and Darwin followed.
The detective disappeared around the corner.
The instant he was out of sight he straightened up and darted into the doorway of a house, where he made a change in his disguise. He was anxious not to lose sight of Darwin, and he hastened back around into Houston Street again.