“Nope.”
“Ever hear of Wadlin or Jerry Donahue or Cartwright?”
Green kicked a chair toward him.
“Sit down, old man,” he suggested. “You’ll feel better in a minute.”
“Ever hear of Hartson? Ever hear of old Jim Hartson?”
“That’s all right,” Green encouraged him. “If you have a line in that bag you think will interest us, bring it out. It’s against office rules, but—”
Galbraithe tried to recall if, on his way downtown, he had inadvertently stopped anywhere for a cocktail. He had no recollection of so doing. Perhaps he was a victim of a mental lapse—one of those freak blank spaces of which the alienists were talking so much lately. He made one more attempt to place himself. In his day he had been one of the star reporters of the staff.
“Ever hear of—of Galbraithe?” he inquired anxiously.
By this time several men had gathered around the two desks as interested spectators. Galbraithe scanned their faces, but he didn’t recognize one of them.
“Haven’t got a card about your person, have you?” inquired Green.