Jack was in no mood to listen to him then. He ran to the telephone, and snatched the receiver from the hook. "What's up?" said Bobo, infected with his excitement. "Give me Mr. Baldwin at the desk," Jack said to the operator. "Hello, Baldwin. This is Robinson. Have you got my man?" "Yes, sir, we've got him all right!" "Thank God! Have him quietly brought up here." Jack hung up the receiver and did a go-as-you-please around the Dutch room, hurdling the chairs. Bobo gazed at him goggle-eyed. "What on earth----!" "I've got him!" cried Jack. "I've got him! I did it with my own little wits. Once too often he tried to fool me! He was just a little too nervy trying to pull something in my own hotel!" "Got who? The old man himself!" cried Bobo amazed. "Joy and deliverance!" sang Jack. "All honest millionaires can now sleep easy o' nights!" "But what's going to become of me now?" said poor Bobo. Jack's transports were interrupted by a ring at the outer door of the suite. He ran to it and flung it open. Bitter disappointment awaited him. It was not the famous, much-desired "Mr. B" that he saw outside nor was it a figure that could possibly have taken his shape. Connolly, the house detective, had his huge hand on the shoulder of a slinking, weedy youth with sallow vacuous face, and cigarette stained fingers; in other words, the typical loafer of the Times Square neighborhood. Baldwin was behind the pair, eager to see what would happen. "Oh, that's not my man!" cried Jack. There was an awkward silence. "I followed your instructions to the letter," said Baldwin, eager to justify himself. "You said to arrest any man that asked for that package. This man asked for it." "Sure," said Jack quickly. "You did right. I'm disappointed, that's all." "I haven't done anything," whined the prisoner. "What are you going to do to me?" "Shall I let him go, sir?" boomed Connolly. Jack roused himself. "Not on your life," he said. "He's got to give an account of himself. Bring him in and shut the door." To the weedy youth he said: "Who sent you here?" The answer came voluble and craven: "I don't know who the guy was. I never seen him before. Honest, I didn't know there was anything crooked in it. I'm no crook, boss." "Describe the man who sent you here." The answer came readily: "A medium old guy, stoutish, not real fat. Had his hair brushed in a funny way, old-fashioned-like, and a little chin whisker." "That's my man!" said Jack grimly. "Where did you meet him?" "I was standin' in front of the pitcher theater on Seventh below Forty-Second with some other fellows when a big black limousine car came along and stopped at the curb. We all took notice of it, it was such a long car, long as an ambulance. The door opened a little way, and an old guy leaned out and held up a finger to me.