“That’s me,” answered Bert. “What do you want with me?” The stranger looked suspicious. “How do I know you’re the feller, huh? I got a message for him. You show me where he lives, huh?” “I tell you I’m Hollins,” declared Bert impatiently. “Who’s the message from?” The boy, who looked as if he ought to be hanging around a down-town corner, looked dubious a moment and then gave a shifty glance up and down the corridor. Several doors were open and there was a low hum of talk from the lighted rooms, but no one else was within earshot. “All right. Know a guy named Barton, or something?” “Burton? Yes.” “Well, say, he wants you to leg it over to Mooney’s. Know it, huh? Billiard joint over on--” “I know Mooney’s. What’s he want me for? What’s the rest of the message?” “That’s all. Just come over to Mooney’s. It was Mike himself give me the word.” “Mike?” repeated Bert, puzzled. “Yeah, Mike Mooney. I was goin’ by, see, an’ he calls me over. ‘Beat it up to the Acad’my, he says, an’ find Upton Hall and tell a guy name o’ Hollins in Room 21 he’s wanted here. Tell him Burton sent for him.’ I don’t know what’s up, but I seen three or four guys standin’ ’round on the inside an’ another guy sittin’ in a chair, an’ I guess some one got hurt, huh?” “Hurt!” exclaimed Bert. “All right, I’ll come. You tell him--” “Tell him nothin’! I’m goin’ home, see.” The youth vanished and Bert instinctively started up the stairs for his cap. Then, realizing with dismay that it was already a quarter to ten, he turned and hurried after the messenger. CHAPTER XVIII MR. CADE RECEIVES He made quick time down the walk to the gate, through State street to West and so into the Saturday night throngs. The messenger’s theory that Chick had been hurt, alarming for the instant, was soon discarded by Bert. What was far more probable was that Chick had played pool again, lost and was unable to meet his obligations. Probably Mooney was holding him as hostage. Bert frowned at the recollection that his present wealth was represented by two silver quarters and one nickel. If Chick’s indebtedness exceeded fifty-five cents he was, Bert thought, likely to remain a hostage! Mooney’s was doing a land-office business when Bert reached it. The long vista of green tables was half shrouded in blue smoke through which coatless players moved to and fro. The lines of chairs on each side held almost uninterrupted rows of spectators. The click of the ivory balls and the tapping of cues were barely heard above the steady bedlam of talk. Near the entrance a cigar case and a desk met at an angle, and the square space behind was used as a sort of office. Chick’s head was visible above the cigar case as Bert’s glance roved away from the tables. Nearby stood a small, wiry, leather-cheeked man whom Bert guessed to be Mike Mooney. There were none others inside the inclosure. Bert went forward and leaned across the display of cigars. “Did you send for me, Chick?” he asked.