Throughout the stroll he haunted us, adhering to this strange line of conduct.

I would turn a corner, to find Billy apparently waiting for me a block off.

Then would follow a signal of no determinable import, after which he would walk swiftly past me as if unaware of my presence.

Once I started to address him, but was met with "_Not a word_!" hissed at me in his best style from between clenched teeth.
I decided at last that Billy was playing a game of his own.

For Billy Durgin, though sixteen years old, had happy access to our world of fine fabling; and to this I knew he resorted at those times when his duties as porter at the City Hotel palled upon his romantic spirit.
Billy, in short, was a detective, well soaked in the plenteous literature of his craft and living in the dream that criminals would one day shudder at the bare mention of his name.
Nor was he unprovided with a badge of office.