a "loose-leaf" note-book with a number of miscellaneous papers of different sizes and colors, caught in on a patent fastener. It was somewhat long and narrow, of a size that would just fit a man's breast pocket, and it was bound in black seal leather.
After the transfer of the book the three men started to move towards the hotel entrance.
"Shall we follow?" asked Greg.
"Of course!" she said.
Slipping out of his seat, he cranked his engine in order to be ready for them. The three men got in the waiting taxi, and it came on past them bound downtown. Greg fell in behind them, but not close enough to excite suspicion. Down that broad empty street one could see for half a mile.
The girl did not speak again during this part of the journey. She was staring ahead of her under knitted brows; the softness was all ironed out of the babyish mouth and her little hands were clenched. Greg wondered mightily what grim thoughts could be filling a creature so sweet and delicate. He felt that he could aid her twice as efficiently if he knew what it was all about but he would not risk a rebuff by asking again.
At Seventy-second Street the cab in front stopped beside the subway station, and Greg slowed down while they watched to see what the men would do. The two short men alighted and disappeared down the stairs. The cab went on.
"We follow the tall man?" asked Greg.
"Certainly. The others don't matter."
Straight down the long empty course of Broadway they were led at top speed; through the mile of automobile warerooms, now dark, and the half mile of theaters and restaurants where a few lights still maintained a dingy semblance of festivity, including the strange blue glare of the little photograph stores, which for some mysterious reason keep open all night. In this quarter a few revelers were still to be seen, bound more or less homeward, their loud and repetitious assurances of regard only broken by violent quarrels; while owl taxis like Greg's own surreptitiously followed them on the chance of picking up business. Still they kept on down Broadway through the nondescript stretch between Herald and Madison Squares, the Tenderloin of a bygone day.
"He must be bound for Brooklyn," said Greg.
But at Twentieth Street the car in front turned to the east. Greg followed at a discreet distance. In that dark and silent quarter greater care was necessary if they wished to keep the man in front from guessing that he was followed. At Gramercy Park his car turned south again into Irving Place, and they lost it for a moment.
When they cautiously turned the Irving Place corner they saw that the other cab had come to a stop half-way down that short street. Even as they looked the tall man's bags were carried into a building on that side. His cab went on.
They drove slowly past the place where he had disappeared. It was a modest little hotel with a Spanish name: Hotel dos Estados Unidos. Through the windows of the lobby they saw the tall man standing by the desk, apparently being assigned to a room.
"What does he come here for?" murmured the girl more and more perplexed.
Greg went on for a block, and turning, came slowly back on the other side. The hotel lobby was now empty, except for the dozing clerk behind the desk. Greg brought the cab to a stop just beyond the hotel where they could still command an oblique view of the lobby.
"What now?" he said.
"I don't know what to say," she murmured. "I can't imagine why he should come here to sleep. I can't believe that he does mean to sleep here. I believe he'll be out again. Let's wait and see."
They continued to discuss the situation, a discussion with little profit as far as Greg was concerned, for he lacked a clue. The burden of her cry was:
"If only I knew what he was up to!"
By and by another cab drew up to the little hotel and a man and woman got out; innocent belated travelers these, who have nothing to do with the story; but the sight of them gave Greg an idea.
"I might slip into the lobby while this man's registering," he said, "and glance over his shoulder. I could find out then what name the other registered under. I could make out to be after a drink of water or something. That is, if you wish me to."
"Yes, do so!" she said eagerly. "It might give us a clue."
Returning to her two minutes later Greg said: "He wrote himself down as Antonio Bareda of Santiago de Managuay."
The effect on the girl was startling. She fell back in her seat. "What! My uncle's name! Has he stolen that too? Oh, something terrible is going on!"
Greg stood with a foot on the running-board at a loss what to say. He finally murmured diffidently: "If you could tell me what you suspect——"
"I can't! I can't!" she cried. "I don't understand it myself. It is too horrible!"
Presently more composed, she said: "One thing is sure, I daren't leave here now. I must find out what he's up to if I have to wait till morning. But you must be tired out. Why don't you get in the back of the cab and sleep until daylight, then I'll call you, and you can relieve me. If necessary I can run the car. We have one at home to save the big car."
Greg reminded afresh of his original grisly passenger felt a cold chill down his spine. That problem remained to be solved. He hung irresolute.
"Go on, get in," she urged, putting her hand around like a chauffeur to open the door.
Greg hastily gripped it. "Don't open it!" he cried.
She looked at him in astonishment.
"The fact is there's something I didn't tell you," he lamely explained. "I've got a sou—I mean a drunken man in there."
"What! You mean we've been carrying him around all night!"
"I guess he didn't mind."
"Oh, bother!" she said. "We'll have to dump him out here. There's no help for it. This is important. It may be a matter of life and death!"
In speaking, she instinctively turned her head and looked through the glass behind her.
"Don't look!" cried Greg cold with horror.
But she only pressed her face closer to the glass. "There isn't anybody there," she said.
Greg astonished threw open the door. It was true. The cab was empty. He gasped; his jaw dropped; he stared at the empty place like an idiot.
"What's the matter with you?" said the girl laughing. "I suppose he just woke up and walked off when you weren't looking."
"He was past walking," said Greg.
His grim air impressed her. "What do you mean?"
"He was dead."
"Dead!" she cried. "Are you mad?"
Greg shook his head. "Dead as mutton!"
Her lip trembled like a child's. "Good heavens, what a city this is!"
"So it seems!" said Greg grimly.
"What had happened to him?"
Greg told her what part of the story he had omitted before.
"Then that was why the man was so anxious to sell you the cab?"
"That was why."
"What has become of it?"
"God knows!"
They looked at each other in dumb amazement. Suddenly the girl's expression changed.
"Did my—did that man who was riding with you know?" she asked sharply.
"No. I told him the same as I told you; that my other fare was drunk."
"I wondered why he rode outside with you. It is not like him to do such things. You are sure he had no hand in it?" she persisted.
This was a new thought to Greg. "Why, no," he said.