Now I understood that this must be his costume when in daytime he had to risk the streets; and I believed that a dozen detectives might meet him, give another glance at his face, but after looking him over, they would laugh at themselves for suspecting him. “Here’s a Halsted Street flash,” they would say, “trying to make himself look like an Astor Street swell. Jerry Fanneal, of Astor Street, would never do that.” An officer, bringing in such a man, would make himself the smile of his station. You would think that I would have said to myself, “This is Keeban.” But the fact was I didn’t suspect him; I was sure at once that he was Jerry. Noticing him more closely, I observed that he had carried his change of caste even into the cut of his hair. No longer was it “feathered” in back in the manner of a University Club barber; he was clipped and shaven on the neck with his hair thickening toward the top till it became almost a tossing mane on the crown. “This is your room, Jerry?” I said. I’d been wondering all the time where and how he’d been living. “Mine just now,” he replied, looking up and down me. His eyes seemed to find satisfaction in the sight of me; but he did not give me his hand; he did not come closer to me than ordinary nearness in the room made inevitable. I realized that he was deliberately holding away from me and I realized why. Here he was not only hiding from the police, with his life hanging upon every risk of recognition, but here he was also playing the part of Keeban; and he could enter no more deadly undertaking than this of impersonating Keeban, Harry Vine, and going out among Keeban’s people. Of course he could have attained this perfection of nuance only through constant keeping to it and he would be foolish to endanger it by jumping in and out of character with each opening of his door. “We can talk here?” I asked. “What is it?” It was so much, so many things, that I could lump them all only in the obvious, emotional statement, “I’ve come to see you.” “Why?” Since he seemed to demand a practical reason, “Shirley Scofield is being paid the insurance money to-day.” He knew that. “Yes, she got a bunch of it this morning, some yesterday and some a couple of days ago. That’s why you tried to look me up day before yesterday, was it?” “Partly,” I said. “That’s all right about her getting the money.” “You mean she wasn’t in the scheme to get the money?” He spoke to me now like Jerry of Astor Street days, I was always slower of wit than he and he was used to telling me obvious things as he did now. “Of course she was after the money, Steve.” He stopped a moment and then said, “But not that way.” “What way?” “By the ‘bump off’; she wasn’t up to it. That was shoved on her, Steve; and she’s sore.” “At whom?” He tapped his chest. “Our friend. Sit down, Steve.” I sat on the chair; he on the bed. “He’s traveling fast, Steve.” “Who?”