"Tell every one I'm in New York,
Jonas," he said, and was gone.
But Enoch did not go to New York. There was, he found on reaching the
station, no train for an hour. He checked his suitcase, and the
watching Jonas followed him out into the dark streets. He knew exactly
whither the boss was heading, and when Enoch had been admitted into a
brick house on a quiet street not a stone's throw from the station,
Jonas entered nimbly through the basement.
He had a short conference with a colored man in the kitchen, then he
went up to the second floor and sat down in a dark corner of the hall
where he could keep an eye on all who entered the rear room. Well
dressed men came and went from the room all night. It was nearing six
o'clock in the morning when Jonas stopped a waiter who was carrying in
a tray of coffee.
"How many's there now?" he demanded.
"Only four," replied the waiter. "That red-headed guy's winning the
shirts off their backs. I've seen this kind of a game before. It's
good for another day."
"Are any of 'em drinking?" asked Jonas.
"Nothing but coffee. Lord, I'm near dead!"
"Let me take that tray in for you. I want to get word to my boss."
The waiter nodded and, sinking into Jonas' chair, closed his eyes.
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