And one who had happened to glance into the cab at that moment, as it passed a lamp, would have seen the gaunt face of a man smiling behind the tip of a cigar. Farther down the avenue another would have seen the same face without the cigar—without the smile.
"Jerry's!" said Ralston sharply, through the manhole.
The driver jerked the reins, wheeled his horse round abruptly, and started on a brisk trot through Forty-fourth Street. Then turning quickly down Sixth Avenue, he brought the hansom to a sudden stop in front of a restaurant whose electric lights flared valiantly into the rain and mist.
There were three doors, but Ralston, without pausing, passed into the hostelry through the middle one. The cabman waited without orders, well aware that those who frequent Jerry's presumably desire the means of transportation therefrom. A bar ranged opposite an oyster counter gave a narrow passage to the dining room. At the end of the bar was a cashier's desk.
The after-theater crowd had not yet arrived, it was too late for dinner guests, and few tables were occupied. Ralston, however, had not expected to find Steadman there. As he reached the desk a well-built, red-cheeked Irishman stepped forward.
"How are you, Mr. Ralston? Congratulations!"
Our friend grasped the hand of the other cordially.
"How are you, Jerry?"
"You're a bit of a stranger."
"Yes. Something like a year. Been out looking over the Philippines."