"Yes; a poor devil," responded Israel Yorke.
"Let's go up an' see the poor devil," said Ninety-One, and grasping Israel firmly by the arm, he passed through the front door and up the narrow stairway.
The eleven followed in silence, supporting Israel firmly in the rear.
As they reached the head of the fourth stairway, Ninety-One put forth his brawny hand, and,—in the darkness,—felt along the wall.
"Here's the door," he whispered, "in a minnit we'll bust in upon your tenant like a thousand o' brick."
Israel felt himself devoured by curiosity, suspense, and fear.
As for the eleven gathering around Israel closely in the darkness, they preserved a dead silence, only broken for a moment by the exclamation of one of their number,—"What a treat it 'ud be to pitch this here cuss down stairs!"
"Hush, boys! hark!" said Ninety-One, and laid his hand upon the latch of the door.
Before we enter the door and gaze upon the scene which Ninety-One disclosed to the gaze of Israel Yorke, our history must retrace its steps.
It was nightfall, and the light of the lamps glittering among the leafless trees of the Park, mingled with the last flush of the departed day, and the mild, tremulous rays of the first stars of evening. At the corner of Broadway and Chambers street, two young men held each other by the hand, as they talked together. The contrast between their faces and general appearance was most remarkable, even for this world of contrasts. One tall in stature, with florid cheeks, and blue eyes glittering with life and hope, was the very picture of health. He was dressed at the top of the fashion. A sleekly-brushed beaver sat jauntily upon his chesnut curls; an overcoat of fine gray cloth fitted closely to his vigorous frame, and by its rolling collar, suffered his blue scarf and diamond pin to be visible; his hands were gloved, and he carried a delicate cane, adorned with a head of amber; and his voice and laugh rung out so cheerily upon the frosty air!