Preston tapped his temple. “Now you’re getting it.” He pushed out of his chair. “Let’s go round up Forrest. I’m anxious to knock some sense into him.”

They left the office, their footsteps loud on the club’s tile floor. Kit asked, “Did you go inside that boardinghouse? Did you see his room?”

“Yes, but he didn’t answer the door. Did he answer for you?”

“He did, but only because I threatened to knock the door down if he didn’t. You wouldn’t believe what I saw in there. He looks terrible. Like he’s aged ten years in two months.”

“That’s the drink. What else?”

“Smelled terrible, too, like he hadn’t bathed in weeks. Clothes were dirty. The only food in the room was a few slices of moldy bread. Bottles everywhere. Nearly broke my heart.”

“Jesus.” Preston jammed a derby atop his head. “What did he say?”

“Argued with me. Accused me of not caring about him. Tried to get me to drink with him.”

They went out the door and Kit locked up. Preston’s carriage waited at the curb, so they piled inside and the wheels began to turn. Preston studied the silver knob atop his cane. “And he agreed to go to dinner with us?”

“It was his idea, in fact.”

“We’ll take him to your house and get him cleaned up. The two of you are roughly the same size, so he can borrow one of your evening suits.”

They traveled south on Broadway to Twenty-Eighth Street, then started west. When they pulled up to the boardinghouse, the same men were out on the stoop, harassing the pedestrians again. Kit ignored them and went inside.

Preston ducked through the doorway, the tall bastard, and followed Kit up the stairs. Other than some murmuring, the hallway was quiet. Kit knocked on the door of 208. “Forrest, open up. It’s Kit and Preston.”

Nothing.

Preston pounded on the wood loudly. “Get up, man. Let’s go. I’m starving.”

There was no sound, no movement from the other side.

Kit turned the knob and was surprised to find the door unlocked. He peered inside . . . and found the room completely empty. No Forrest, no bottles. No moldy bread. The entire room had been cleared out. “What the hell?”

“Are you sure this is the right room?”

“Of course.” He glanced at the other doors. “This was where he was staying.”

“Did he switch rooms?”

“Let’s go find out.”

They asked some of the other tenants on the floor but no one claimed to have seen Forrest. Then they went downstairs and rang the bell on the counter until the attendant shuffled out from a back room. “What do you want?” the older man snarled, his eyes rimmed with red.

“The man in room 208,” Kit asked. “Did he switch rooms?”

“No. Left in the middle of the night and hasn’t come back.”