"Oh, don't mention it," says I.
Somehow, I didn't tap Clyde for so much real information. In fact, if I'd been at all touchy I might have worked up the notion that I was bein' snubbed.
I keeps step with Mr. Creighton clear to his hotel, where he swings in the Fifth Avenue entrance without wastin' any breath over fond adieus. I can't say why I didn't go on home then, instead of hangin' up outside. Maybe it was because the sidewalk taxi agent had sort of a familiar look, or perhaps I had an idea I was bein' sleuthy.
Must have been four or five minutes I'd been standin' there, starin' at the entrance, when out through the revolvin' door breezes Clyde, puffin' a cigarette and swingin' his walkin'-stick jaunty. He don't spot me until he's about to brush by, and then he stops short.
"Forgot something?" I suggests.
"Ah—er—evidently," says he, and whirls and marches back into the hotel.
"Huh!" says I, indicatin' nothin' much.
"Where to, sir?" says someone at my elbow.
It's the taxi agent, who has drifted up and mistaken me for a foolish guest.
Kind of a throaty, husky voice he has, that you wouldn't forget easy; and I knew them aëroplane ears of his couldn't be duplicated.