Sebastian traveled at seventy, eighty, then one-hundred down the freeway. I didn’t understand. He ran back to his car, glancing only once at the man in the car. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. You used to beg me for hours at a time to give it all up, never to go near the ‘Ambassador’s’ again. But two weeks later he returned. Above was a spacious hall, connected with it by a flight of stone steps, at the further end of which stood an immense grated door, called in the slang of the place "The Jigger," through the bars of which the felons in the upper wards were allowed to converse with their friends, or if they wished to enter the room, or join the revellers below, they were at liberty to do so, on payment of a small fine. “I had the pleasure of—er—meeting you more than once, I believe.
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