ner stood submitting the bearer of it to still another of his apparently impersonal and abstracted scrutinies. Yet in that brief second or two the Secret Service man had taken in every detail of that youth's uniform and appearance, from the celluloid number-plate on his cap to the worn-down heels of his shoes.
His final decision was in no way a contradiction of his first impression. That A.D.T. boy was authentic enough. But somewhere behind that message, he felt, there was still some trickery, some hidden trap which it was his business to fathom.
"Where did this note come from?" was Kestner's casual inquiry.
"Fr'm th' Alambo," was the equally casual reply.
"What's that?" demanded Kestner.
"Squab-dump!" was the laconic answer.
Then seeing he was not understood, the uniformed youth added: "It's one o' them burlap-lined apartment-hotels wit' all th' onyx in th' office an' all the Tenderloin in th' uppers!"
"You mean it's not the right place for a young woman?"
"Gee; it's full o' th'm! An' I guess it's as good 's any other theatrical dump along th' Way."
"Where is it?"
"Jus' above Longacre Square."
"And where did you get this note?"
"From a woman in number seventeen."
"What did she look like?"
The youth appraised his interrogator, looking him up and down with listless yet uncannily sagacious eyes.
