He wouldn't have it that way, though. I'd got to go along and be ready to give him any points I thought of. We goes in a cab, too, in over the rubber mats to the carriage door, just like we'd come to hire the royal suite. "The Baron Kazedky," says Mallory, shovin' his card across at the near plute behind the desk. Then the cold wave begun comin' our way. Mister Baron was out. Nobody knew where he'd gone. He hadn't left any word. And he didn't receive callers after four P.M., anyway. Mallory was gettin' his breath after stoppin' them body blows, when I pushes in. "Say, Sir Wally," says I, leanin' over towards the clerk and speakin' confidential, "lemme give you somethin' from the inside. If Kazedky misses seein' Mr. Mallory to-night, you'll be called up to-morrow to hear some Russian language that'll take all the crimp out of that Robert Mantell bang of yours. Now ring up one of them bench-warmers and show us the Baron!" But, say, you might's well try bluffin' your way through the fire lines on a brass trunk check, "You'll find the manager's office two doors to the left, gentlemen," says he. "Much obliged for nothin'," says I. Course, there wa'n't any use registerin' a kick. Orders is orders, and we was on the wrong side of the fence. Mallory and I takes a turn through the corridors and past the main dinin'-room, where they keeps an orchestra playin' so's the got-rich-quick folks won't hear each other eat their soup. We was tryin' to think up a new move. I was for goin' out somewhere and callin' for the Baron over the 'phone; but Mallory's got his jaw set now and says he don't mean to leave until he has some kind of satisfaction. He's kind of slow takin' hold; but when he gets his teeth in he's a stayer. We knocks around half an hour, and nothin' happens. Then, just as we was pushin' through the mob into the Palm Room I runs into Whitey Buck. You know about Whitey, don't you? Well, you've seen his name printed across the top of the sportin' page that he runs. And say, Whitey's the smooth boy, all right! Him and me used to do some great old joshin' when I was on the Sunday editor's door. "Hello, Whitey!" says I. "Who you been workin' for a swell feed now?" "That you, Torchy?" says he. "Why, I took your head for an exit light. How's tricks?" "On the blink," says I. "We're up against a freeze out, Mr. Mallory and me. You know Mallory, don't you?" "What, Skid Mallory?" says he, takin' another look. "What a pipe! Why, say, old man, I want you the worst way. Got to hash up a full-page sympose knockin' reformed football, and if you'll take off a thousand-word opinion I'll blow you to anything on the bill of fare. Come on in here to a table while we chew it over. Torchy, grab a garcon. Sizzlin' sisters! but I'm glad to root you out, Skid!" He was all of that; but it didn't mean anything more'n that Whitey sees an easy column comin' his way.