wine to him. The little man was choosing a cigar at the stall. As he
leaned down to light it, Jocelyn Thew's practiced eye caught the shape
of a revolver in his hip pocket.

"English," he murmured softly to himself. "Probably one of Crawshay's
lot, preparing a report for him when he returns from Chicago."

With an anticipatory smile, he entered upon the task of shaking off
his unwelcome follower. He passed with the confident air of a member
into a big club situated in an adjoining block, left it almost at once
by a side entrance, found a taxicab, drove to a subway station
up-town, and finally caught an express back again to Fourteenth
Street. Here he entered without hesitation a small, foreign-looking
restaurant which intruded upon the pavement only a few yards from the
iron staircase by which he descended from the station. There were two
faded evergreen shrubs in cracked pots at the bottom of the steps,
soiled muslin curtains drawn across the lower half of the windows,
dejected-looking green shutters which, had the appearance of being
permanently nailed against the walls, and a general air of foreign and
tawdry profligacy. Jocelyn Thew stepped into a room on the right-hand
side of the entrance and, making his way to the window, glanced
cautiously out. There was no sign anywhere of the little man. Then he
turned towards the bar, around which a motley group of Italians and
Hungarians were gathered. The linen-clad negro who presided there met
his questioning glance with a slight nod, and the visitor passed
without hesitation through a curtained opening to the rear of the
place, along a passage, up a flight of narrow stairs until he arrived
at a door on the first landing. He knocked and was at once bidden to
enter. For a moment he listened as though to the sounds below. Then he
slipped into the room and closed the door behind him.