“What do I know? Nothing! He’s a queer stick. Bought the paper about three years ago. Hardly ever see him. Goes to Washington quite often. The police are investigating the sheet, I guess.” “Ah!” said Fay. “Yep! There’s been talk of the actual ownership being in the hands of a lot of sure-thing grafters and gamblers. I’m looking for a knockout and an upper-cut from the postal authorities any time. You can’t pinch me! I don’t write the editorials.” “They advocate horse-racing and open gambling?” “They certainly did--a year or two ago. Now we’ve been instructed to hit a bunch of contractors and reformers. Take it from me, Fay, I don’t think the _Messenger_ is making any money.” “Bills paid and all that?” “Oh, sure! James Ponsardin is rated three A’s and a One.” “Is he French or Swiss?” “Came from Switzerland, I think. Bright fellow, but--” “Where does he live? Directory gives an apartment on Riverside Drive.” “I went up there once with some tickets to a bout. He wasn’t there. Butler said he was up-State. I guess he’s dug in, covered up and pulled the hole in after him. No one around here or downtown knows where to find him.” “Do you know anything about the Gray Taxi Company?” “The one with the ex-convict drivers?” Chester Fay nodded. “No. I heard the bunch talking about it. Why did you ask?” Fay rose from his chair and threw back his shoulders. “Your boss is supposed to own it,” he said. “Ponsardin _is_ the owner! I’ve got a case that’s far from being clear, Foley. I’ll give you first chance when I’ve worked it out for Mr. Mott. Good-by!” * * * * * Rake led the way out and down the steps to the street. “Where to, Chester?” he asked as they stood on the sidewalk. “Nearest telephone!” said Fay, thrusting his hands in his pockets in search for some change. Rake waited outside of the cigar-store while Fay entered a booth. Night was dropping on the city. The sun had set over the blue barriers of the Palisades. The lights of Broadway slashed the purple heavens from south to north. Forty-second Street with its sign-clusters marked the center of the illumination. It was a long ten minutes before Fay emerged with his teeth clamping a slender Perfecto. He passed one to Rake. “Smoke up!” he said. “It’s on the British representatives. I’ve got a good lead from Arthur Hilton. It’s one I overlooked in my haste this morning. I think we get our people tonight!” “What people, Chester?” “The crooks who killed Stephney. They were after bigger game. The others of Stephney’s suite are due on the _Imparada_. Hilton tells me privately that she has been sighted from Sandy Hook.” Rake examined the cigar, then lighted it and started puffing. “I don’t get you! What’s due on the ship? What’s it got to do with--” Fay started toward Broadway. Rake followed with the question still upon his mind.