Slade looked her over again as if she had a hand on a gun. "Thanks," he said, with sarcastic emphasis. "And I'm not a bloodhound. Can't follow a lead if the lead is bleeding into the floorboards," he said, yanking a chair out from under a table. He eased his large form into the seat.
Keeping his eyes focused on her, he finished off the rest of his drink and fiddled vaguely with the handkerchief in his free hand. "I'm a Pinkerton. Abel Slade. So what are you? Besides curious."