And the sharp-eyed, gray-haired gent we talked to through the brass gratin' acted like he'd never heard the name Gedney Nash before. When Old Hickory cuts loose with the tabasco remarks at him he only smiles patient and insists that if he can locate Mr. Nash, which he doubts, he'll do his best to arrange an interview. It may take a day, or a week, or a month, but---- "Bah!" snorts Old Hickory, turnin' on his heel, and he cusses eloquent all the way down and out to the taxi. "Seems to me I've heard how Mr. Nash uses a private elevator," I suggests. "Quite like him," says Old Hickory. "Think you could find it?" "I could make a stab," says I. But at that I knew I was kiddin' myself. Why not? Ain't there been times when whole bunches of live-wire reporters, not to mention relays of court deputies, have raked New York with a fine-tooth comb, lookin' for Gedney Nash, without even gettin' so much as a glimpse of his limousine rollin' round a corner. "Suppose we circle the block once or twice, while I tear off a few Sherlock Holmes thoughts?" says I. Mr. Ellins sniffs scornful; but he'd gone the limit himself, so he gives the directions. I leaned back, shut my eyes, and tried to guess how a foxy old guy like Nash would fix it up so he could do the unseen duck off Broadway into his private office. Was it a tunnel from the subway through the boiler basement, or a bridge from the next skyscraper, or---- But the sight of a blue cap made me ditch this dream stuff. Funny I hadn't thought of that line before--and me an A. D. T. once myself! "Hey, you!" I calls out the window. "Wait up, Cabby, while we take on a passenger. Yes, you, Skinny. Hop in here. Ah, what for would we be kidnappin' a remnant like you? It's your birthday, ain't it? And the gentleman here has a present for you--a whole dollar. Eh, Mr. Ellins?" Old Hickory looks sort of puzzled; but he forks out the singleton, and the messenger climbs in after it. A chunky, round-faced kid he was too. I pushed him into one of the foldin' front seats and proceeds to apply the pump. "What station do you run from, Sport?" says I. "Number six," says he. "Oh, yes," says I. "Just back of the Exchange. And is old Connolly chief down there still?" "Yes, Sir," says he. "Give him my regards when you get back," says I, "and tell him Torchy says he's a flivver." The kid grins enthusiastic. "By the way," I goes on, "who's he sendin' out with the Nash work--Gedney Nash's, you know?" "Number 17," says he, "Loppy Miller." "What!" says I. "Old Loppy carryin' the book yet? Why, he had grown kids when I wore the stripes. Well, well! Cagy old duffer, Loppy. Ever ask him where he delivers the Nash business?" "Yep," says the youngster, "and he near got me fired for it." "But you found out, didn't you?" says I. He glances at me suspicious and rolls his eyes. "M-m-m-m," says he, shakin' his head.