“Not at all; not at all!” said Mr. Ridgeway. “It makes no difference, only you can see by this letter that those miscreants must be locked up.”
“I will attend to that if I have to have a fight with them myself,” said O’Brien.
“Then let us be going,” said Mr. Ridgeway. “Lawrence, do you want to come down as far as Pennsylvania Avenue and keep the car there for me?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Lawrence.
When Mr. Ridgeway left the car a safe distance up the broad glittering avenue, Lawrence settled back and proceeded to enjoy himself. One of the most beautiful thoroughfares in the world stretched before him, and along it went representatives of every country and clime. He was intent on the pageant when a whining voice at his elbow recalled him to the present. A beggar, ragged, blear eyed, and out of place in the dazzling cleanness of the avenue, had shuffled up to the curb and was begging.
As Lawrence looked at the man, some strange picture in his brain, long forgotten and hideous, suddenly sprang into view. Where had he ever seen the face before him? Where had he heard that peculiar, deep, grating voice?
As he stared, the man looked him straight in the face for a minute and Lawrence saw a deep, three-cornered scar on the man’s chin. On the spur of the moment he leaned down, and said:
“Moll certainly soaked you a good one, didn’t she?” at the same time pointing to the scar.
The man leaped back with an oath. “Who are you?” he demanded, and then, “Moll’s dead,” he added.
“I know,” said Lawrence.