DANCE OF THE HOURS
be here at seven o'clock lookin' for a party named McCabe. I guess it's a bum tip, all right; but of course I got to look into it."
"Most assuredly." The grey man bent and inspected the names again. "I am hunting up an old friend," he explained carelessly: "a man named Simmons—knew him in college—down on his luck—wrote me yesterday. There he is: fourth floor, east. I'll see you when I come down, I hope, Mr. Hickey."
The automatic lock clicked and the door swung open; the grey man passing through and up the stairs. Hickey, ostentatiously ignoring the existence of the policeman, returned to his post of observation.
At eight o'clock he was still there, looking bored.
At eight-thirty he was still there, wearing a puzzled expression.
At nine he called the adoring hall-boy, gave him a quarter with minute instructions, and saw him disappear into the hallway of Number 205. Three minutes later the boy was back, breathless but enthusiastic.
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