“Seven o’clock at the Great Western?”

“Righto.”

“I’ll run along and let you get to your meeting, but tell me, has she an account here?”

“Yes, and she deposited the check this morning. The police have it.”

“Yeah? And where does she live?”

“1232 Hurricane Street.”

I said: “Well, well!” and, “See you tonight,” and went away.

My next stop was in the office of the chief of police, in the City Hall.

Noonan, the chief, was a fat man with twinkling greenish eyes set in a round jovial face. When I told him what I was doing in his city he seemed glad of it. He gave me a handshake, a cigar and a chair.