“Next floor. Who do you want?”
“Guy name o’ Hollins. ’S he live here?”
“That’s me,” answered Bert. “What do you want with me?”
The stranger looked suspicious. “How do I know you’re the feller, huh? I got a message for him. You show me where he lives, huh?”
“I tell you I’m Hollins,” declared Bert impatiently. “Who’s the message from?”
The boy, who looked as if he ought to be hanging around a down-town corner, looked dubious a moment and then gave a shifty glance up and down the corridor. Several doors were open and there was a low hum of talk from the lighted rooms, but no one else was within earshot. “All right. Know a guy named Barton, or something?”
“Burton? Yes.”
“Well, say, he wants you to leg it over to Mooney’s. Know it, huh? Billiard joint over on—”
“I know Mooney’s. What’s he want me for? What’s the rest of the message?”
“That’s all. Just come over to Mooney’s. It was Mike himself give me the word.”