"The Hoffman House," he was thinking, "is one of the most celebrated hotels in New York, and a place to which all strangers like to go."
As it was the time of year when days are short, it was already dark as night, although it was yet some time before the usual evening dinner hour.
Frank strolled across to the Hoffman House, and went in at the main entrance. A number of men were in the lobby, but apparently there were no students among them.
He went slowly past group after group, and turned at length to the barroom.
This place was famous at that time for its remarkable collection of valuable paintings and statuary; it was often referred to jocosely as the "art gallery." Every stranger in New York regarded it as one of the most interesting sights of the town.
It was pretty well filled with customers when Frank entered, but everything was quiet and orderly.
At the farther side of the room, and partly concealed by the bar, which took up the very middle, was a group of young men just on the point of leaving by the door that opens upon Twenty-fifth Street.
"Too bad you've got to hurry," one of them remarked in a pleasant voice.
"I'm overdue at the hotel already," said another, "and must get back before they become anxious about me."
Frank could not see the speaker, but he recognized the voice as that of Higgins.