The next instant the two had passed upstairs, where the man had a room.
"Well, Wilkinson," said Leech, once they were behind closed doors, and passing over a fifty-cent cigar, "you turned it pretty neat, but you didn't fool me."
"I see I didn't," returned Wilkinson, limply.
"You were going to stay here until you could make a get away, I suppose," went on Leech. "You did it cleverly, but," he shook his head, "there was a man cleverer than you in little old New York—that's me."
"You're an intruder," retorted Wilkinson, leaning over toward the other. "I was just getting used to the life here—liked it, in fact."
"It's the butcher blood coming out in you," conceded Leech. "Reversion to a type. I suppose this is really where a man like you belongs."
"Who else knows about me?" asked Wilkinson, coolly enough.
Leech screwed up an eye.
"Did you think I was fool enough to give you away?" He paused a moment to watch the effect of his words upon the other, then he went on: "Nobody followed you up—nobody knows but myself. Listen, Wilkinson, and I'll tell you how you did it."