“That is a matter into which I cannot go.”
“Well, what’s his name, then? Maybe I know him. I know a few good people in this burg.”
“I have no objection to telling you that. He is an artist, and his name is—his name is——”
Wrinkles appeared in Bailey’s forehead. His eyes bulged anxiously behind their glasses.
“I’ve forgotten,” he said blankly.
“For the love of Mike! Know where he lives?”
“I am afraid not.”
Steve patted him kindly on the shoulder.
“Take my advice, bo,” he said. “Let the poor fellow off this time.”
And so it came about that Bailey, instead of falling upon Kirk Winfield, hailed a taxicab and drove to the apartment of Mrs. Lora Delane Porter.