“Oh, yes!” said Coster gravely. “I’m not a drunkard, understand. I don’t go off on bats; _that_ wouldn’t give me pleasure. And I can always sober up in time for anything special. But I like to go quietly home like this and drink—well, say, about this bottle to-night, and another to-morrow. Then I’ll taper off and quit again. See?” “Perfectly. If you have to do it, it seems a very sensible method. Look here; is there any particular hurry about this systematic debauch of yours?” “Hurry? Oh, no, there’s no hurry. Any time will do. Why?” “Then,” said Barrison, who had an idea, “why not come over to my rooms—we’re almost there—and have a couple of drinks with me and a bite to eat, first? You can go home and get drunk later, you know, just as well.” “Just as well,” said Willie, with surprising acquiescence. “I don’t want any drinks, thanks, for I only drink alone. But now you mention it, I’m hungry.” Barrison knew that he himself was far too tired already to lengthen out this night so preposterously, but that idea which had so suddenly come to him drove all consideration of fatigue from his mind. He was a detective, and thought that in the dim distance he could see a shadowy trail. In a weird case of this sort, anything was worth a chance. At Barrison’s rooms they found a cold supper waiting, and Tara asleep in a chair, contriving somehow to look dignified even in slumber. There is no dignity like that of a superior Japanese servant. He even woke up in a dignified manner, and prepared to serve supper. But Barrison sent him to bed, and sat down to talk to Willie over cold chicken and ham, and macedoine salad. The little stage manager ate hungrily, but stubbornly refused to drink. He also scorned his host’s expensive smokes, preferring his own obnoxious brand. “Coster,” said Barrison at last, “I want you to tell me what you know of Alan Mortimer.” “What I know! He was the yellowest guy in some things that ever——” “That isn’t just what I meant. I mean—you’ve been with Dukane a long time, haven’t you?” “Sure thing. I’ve been with the gov’nor five—no, six—years.” “Then you must know how he came to take up Mortimer. Where did he discover him first? He’s a stranger on Broadway.” “Why don’t you ask the gov’nor about it?” demanded Willie shrewdly. “Well,” Jim was obliged to admit, rather uncomfortably, “he’s not the sort of man you feel like pumping. Of course, Lowry will get it all out of him sooner or later, but I’m curious. And I can’t see what objection he could have to your——” “Being pumped,” finished Willie. “Maybe not, but I don’t really know much about it, anyway.” His eyes strayed wistfully to his brown paper package. “See here,” he said, “I’m much obliged for the eats, but I guess I’ll be trotting along. I’ve got a very pressing engagement!”