The tall man in grey paused indefinitely before the brownstone stoop of the
house numbered 205, then swung up the steps and into the vestibule. Here he
halted, bending over to scrutinize the names on the letter-boxes.

The short, thick-set man reluctantly detached himself from his polished
pillar and waddled ungracefully across the street.

The policeman on the corner seemed suddenly interested in Seventh Avenue;
and walked in that direction.

The grey man, having vainly deciphered all the names on one side of the
vestibule, straightened up and turned his attention to the opposite wall,
either unconscious of or indifferent to the shuffle of feet on the stoop
behind him.

The short, thick-set man removed one hand from a pocket and tapped the grey
man gently on the shoulder.

"Lookin' for McCabe, Anisty?" he inquired genially.

The grey man turned slowly, exhibiting a countenance blank with
astonishment. "Beg pardon?" he drawled; and then, with a dawning gleam of
recognition in his eyes: "Why, good evening, Hickey! What brings you up
this way?"

The short, thick-set man permitted his jaw to droop and his eyes to
protrude for some seconds. "Oh," he said in a tone of great disgust,
"hell!" He pulled himself together with an effort. "Excuse _me_, Mr.
Maitland," he stammered, "I wasn't lookin' for yeh."