Jimmie Dale's eyes swept the room in a swift, comprehensive glance,
fixed on a little fellow, loudly dressed, who shared a table halfway
down the room with a woman in a picture hat, and a smile of relief
touched his lips. The Runt at last!
He walked down the room, caught the Runt's eyes significantly as he
passed the table, kept on to a door between the platform and the bar,
opened it, and went out into a lighted hallway, at one end of which a
door opened onto the street, and at the other a stairway led above.
The Runt joined him. "Wot's de row, Larry?" inquired the Runt.
"Nuthin' much," said Jimmie Dale. "Only I t'ought I'd let youse know.
I was passin' Moriarty's an' got de tip. Say, some guy's croaked Jake
Metzer dere."
"Aw, ferget it!" observed the Runt airily. "Dat's stale. Was wise to dat
hours ago."
Jimmie Dale's face fell. "But I just come from dere," he insisted; "an'
de harness bulls only just found it out."
"Mabbe," grunted the Runt. "But Metzer got his early in de
afternoon--see?"
Jimmie Dale looked quickly around him--and then leaned toward the Runt.
"Wot's de lay, Runt?" he whispered.
The Runt pulled down one eyelid, and, with his knowing grin, the
cigarette, clinging to his upper lip, sagged down in the opposite corner
of his mouth.
Jimmie Dale grinned, too--in a flash inspiration had come to Jimmie
Dale.
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