“I’d bite it in four if it looked anything like that Waldemar johnnie, by James!” asserted the superintendent, vigorously. “And if ever he lays a hand on you——Look here, Cleek: I know it sounds un-English, very Continental, rotten ‘soft’ from one man to another, but—dammit, Cleek, I love you! I’d go to hell for you! I’d die fighting for you! Do you understand?”
“Perfectly,” said Cleek; then he put out his hand and took Mr. Narkom’s in a hard, firm grip, and added, gently: “My friend, my comrade, my pal! Side by side—together—to the end.” And the car ran on for a good half mile before either spoke again.
CHAPTER XXXII
“Mr. Narkom!”
It was an hour later, and Cleek’s voice broke the silence abruptly. He had taken out his notebook and had been scribbling in it for some little time, but now, as he spoke, he tore out the written leaf and passed it over to the superintendent.
“Mr. Narkom, I refused, in the beginning, to give you the address of the little house at which I was located. Here it is. Put it in your pocketbook against future need, will you?”
“Yes, certainly. But cinnamon! old chap, what good is it to me now when you’ve left the place?”
“You will understand, perhaps, when I tell you that Miss Lorne is its present occupant. It was for that I took it in the beginning. There may come a need to communicate with her; there may come a need for her to communicate with you. There’s always a chance, you know, that a candle may be put out when the wind blows at it from all directions; and if anything should happen—I mean if—er—anything having a bearing upon me personally that you think she ought to be told should come to pass—well, just go to her at once, will you?—there’s a dear friend. That’s the address (don’t lose it) and full directions how to get there speedily. I am giving it to you now, as we shall soon be in town again and I shall leave you directly we arrive there. I’m in haste to get back to Dollops and see if between us we can’t hit upon some plan, he and I, to get at the whereabouts of Waldemar. That plain-clothes man of yours is like the butler with the bottle of cider—he ‘doesn’t seem to get any forrarder.’”
“Kibblewhite!” blurted out the superintendent, sitting up sharply. “Well, of all the born jackasses, of all the mutton-heads in this world——”