"Yes, I've seen that party around more or less," says he. "Creighton, eh? Well, he's no guest. Yes, I'm sure he don't room here. He just blew through the north exit. What's his line?"
"Antiques, he says," says I.
"Oh, sure!" says Squint. "Now I have him located. He's a free-lunch hitter; I remember one of the barkeeps grouching about him. But say, if you're after full details you ought to have a talk with Colonel Brassle. He knows him. And the Colonel ought to be strolling in from the Army and Navy Club soon. Want to wait?"
"Long as I've started this thing, I might as well stay with it," says I.
Yep, I waits for the Colonel. Some enthusiastic describer, Colonel Brassle is, when he gets going. It was near 1 A.M. when I finally tears myself away; but I'm loaded up with enough facts about Creighton to fill a book. And few of 'em was what you might call complimentary to Clyde. For one thing, his dear Alicia hadn't found him as inspirin' as he had her. Anyway, she'd complained a lot about his hang-over disposition, and finally quit him for good five or six years before she passed on. Also, Clyde was no plute. He was existin' chiefly on bluff at present, and that studio of his was a rear loft over a delivery-truck garage down off Sixth Avenue. Then, there was other items just as interestin'.
But how I was goin' to get it all on record for Auntie I couldn't quite dope out. Anyway, there was no grand rush; it would keep. So I just lets things slide for a day or so. Maybe next Wednesday evenin' I'd have a chance to throw out a hint.
Then, here Tuesday afternoon I gets this trouble call from Vee. She's out at the corner drug store on the 'phone.
"It's about Auntie," says she. "She is acting so queerly."
"Any more so than usual?" I asks.
"She is going somewhere, and she hasn't told me a word about it," says Vee. "I found her traveling-bag, all packed, hidden under the hall-seat."