"They turned her loose, to duck the bulls," came the slow, sullen answer.
"Where?"
"In Central Park."
Probably this was the truth, Clay reflected. He could take the man's word or not as he pleased. There was no way to disprove it now.
He recovered his revolver, threw the automatic out of the window, and walked to the door.
"Joe's tied up in a back room," he said over his shoulder.
Thirty seconds later Clay stepped into the street. He walked across to a subway station and took an uptown train.
Men looked at him curiously. His face was bruised and bleeding, his clothes disheveled, his hat torn. Clay grinned and thought of the old answer:
"They'd ought to see the other man."
One young fellow, apparently a college boy, who had looked upon the wine when it was red, was moved to come over and offer condolence.