mmission
business. Into its congestion Pete dove with a weasel instinct for
finding the right holes to slip through, the alleys that might be
navigated in safety; in less than the ten minutes I'd specified, we were
free again on Columbus Avenue, pursuit lost, and headed back for the
restaurant on the wharf.

"Boss," Little Pete was hoarse with the excitement he loved, as he laid
the roadster alongside the Little Italy, "was it on the level, what you
fed the lawyer guy? Ain't you wise to where Captain Gilbert is? I've saw
him frequent since you've been gone."

"How many times is 'frequent,' Pete?" I asked. "And when did the last
'frequent' happen?"

"Twice," sulkily. I'd wounded his pride by not taking him seriously; but
he added as I jumped down from the machine. "I druv him up on the hill,
'round the place where you an' him--an' her--went that day."

Pete didn't need to use Barbara Wallace's name. The way he salaamed to
the pronoun was enough; the swath that girl cut evidently reached from
the cradle to the grave, with this monkey grinning at one end, and me
doddering along at the other.

I gave a moment to questioning Pete, found out all he knew, and went
into the restaurant, wondering what under heaven Barbara Wallace would
say to me or ask me.

The Little Italy restaurant is not so bad a place for luncheon. If one
likes any eatables the western seas produce, I heartily recommend it.
Where fish are unloaded from the smacks by the ton, fish are sure to be
in evidence, but they are nice, fresh fish, and look good enough to eat.
And the Little Italy is clean, with white oil-clothed tables and a view
from its broad windows that down-town restaurants would double their
rent to get.

Just now it was full of noisy patrons, foreigners, mostly; people too
busy eating to notice whether I carried my head on my shoulders or under
my arm.

In a far corner, Barbara Wallace's eyes were on me from the minute I
came within her sight. She had ordered clams for two, mostly, I thought,
to defend the privacy of our talk from the interruptions of a waiter,
and I was hardly in my chair before she burst out,

"Where's Worth? Why wasn't he in that office to defend himself against
what they're hinting?"

"I suppose," I said dryly, "because he wasn't given an invitation to
attend. You ought to know why. You work for Dykeman."

"I work for Dykeman?" she repeated after me in a bewildered tone. "I'm
bookkeeper in the Western Cereal