That she was a desperate woman the letter told him, and he did not wonder that it paled Claude Lamont’s cheeks.
Perhaps if he had followed the young man he might have been guided by him to Imogene’s home, but he had to be content for the present with the letter.
Nick, with the letter reposing in an inner pocket, came out of the café and for a moment stood under the lights that revealed the sidewalk.
“I’ll find the boy now,” he said. “Billy may have discovered something since I last saw him.”
Ten minutes later he entered a little room on Mulberry Street and aroused a boy who was sleeping on a rude couch.
It was not far from Mother Flintstone’s late hovel, and Billy looked astonished to see the detective in the den.
“Been dreamin’ erbout you, Mr. Carter,” cried the boy, as he rubbed his eyes.
“Well, I’ll listen to the dream, Billy.”
“No, it wasn’t any good, but all the time I saw your face in it. You know the man who dragged me from Mother Flintstone’s?”
“Yes.”