Half an hour later, Sturgis was walking briskly down Broadway, with his usual air of absent-minded concentration. Presently he turned into a side street and at once slackened his pace. He now sauntered along like a lounger at a loss how to kill a long idle day. The show window of a bric-à-brac shop arrested his attention. He stopped to examine its contents.
A little farther up the street was a liquor saloon, outside of which stood a group of boisterous young rowdies. An older man, evidently in his cups, was seated on an adjoining stoop, where, with maudlin gravity, he seemed to be communing with himself.
On the opposite side of the way stood a low, dilapidated brick house. A painted sign over the windows of the ground floor bore the name, "MANHATTAN CHEMICAL CO."
The drunken man rose unsteadily to his feet and approached Sturgis with outstretched hand.
"Say, Jimmy, get on ter his nibs strikin' de bloke fur a nickel ter git med'cine fur his sick mudder," exclaimed one of the young ruffians.
The wretched-looking individual thus designated seemed hardly able to stand as he steadied himself against an iron railing; but the eyes he turned upon Sturgis were bright with intelligence, and the words he spoke were uttered in a low, firm voice.
"He's been here—been here twice."
"Twice?" echoed Sturgis, surprised. "Where is he now?"
"I don't know——"
"You don't know?"