nonchalantly, with his hat on, carrying what proved to be a suit of black clothes on his arm. He was a large, dark, breezy-looking, informal sort of individual, about thirty-five; and Barney at once misplaced him as a Broadway type of “rounder” and race-track “sport.” He ignored Barney and proceeded to drape the clothes over the foot of the bed, as if he had come merely to bring the suit. Barney did not guess that because of his presence the man did not speak to Babbing—until Babbing, by a question, indicated that it was all right to talk.
“Any one been to see him to-day?” Babbing asked.
“Not a soul,” he answered. “He ’s been out, this morning, but he did n’t connect.”
“Snider has picked up some more telegrams.” Babbing held out the report to him. “In cipher.”
“Got their code yet?”
“No. If we had that, we ’d have everything. We can figure out a word here and there.
