From one resort to another he hurried, talking in the accepted style through one corner of his mouth to hard-visaged individuals behind dirty, reeking bars that were reared on equally dirty and foul-smelling sawdust-strewn floors; visiting dance halls, secretive back rooms, and certain Chinese pipe joints.
But the Runt was decidedly elusive.

There had been no news of him, no one had seen him--and this after fully an hour had passed since Jimmie Dale had left Carruthers in front of Moriarty's.

The possibilities however were still legion--numbered only by the numberless dives and dens sheltered by that quarter of the city.
Jimmie Dale turned into Chatham Square, heading for the Pagoda Dance Hall.

A man loitering at the curb shot a swift, searching glance at him as he slouched by.

Jimmie Dale paused in the doorway of the Pagoda and looked up and down the street.