Selecting a lad who was playing in the street, he enquired the way of him.
"Up there to the right, then to the left sharp. It's the last street in that direction," he was told, the boy evidently seeing nothing strange about him. Tom promptly took the direction indicated, and, following the turnings in succession, came to the street he was searching for.
"Francisco lives at a cabaret at the corner," he reminded himself. "There it is: 'Michael Francisco, dealer in wine.' And there's the fellow himself."
A beetle-browed, untidy individual was sitting just within the entrance to the cabaret, warming his toes at a charcoal brazier. From a room within came the sound of voices, the tinkle of a stringed instrument, and the chink of glasses, while from a spot still farther away, perhaps in the back regions of the dwelling, the voice of a scolding woman could be heard, drowning the other sounds completely for some few seconds. Tom looked cautiously about him, and then sauntered up to the door.
"One Francisco?" he asked. "Of the street of St. Angelo?"
"The same," came the immediate answer, while the proprietor of the place looked him over sharply. "And you?"
"Someone with a message from Oporto for you to deal with. Here it is."
An exclamation of delight broke from the man, who at once seized the envelope. "You have orders to wait, then, my friend?" he asked.
"I have; I shall seek a lodging down the street. To-night I will come for the answer."
"Then step inside now and take a glass," the man said promptly. "To-night there shall be an answer. Come, a glass. Ho there, wine!" he shouted.