"That—that face," stammered Hickey.
"What of it?"
"I've been looking for it for three days by your orders. That's the fellow with the little black mustache, who hired me on the pier that night."
Greg was effectually galvanized into action. Slipping out of his seat, he said: "Turn the first corner to the right, and wait for me in the side street. I'll look after him. He doesn't know me."
Greg ran down the roadway until he got in advance of the policeman; then forcing his way through the crowd, who gave way before his determined air, he fronted the officer.
"Beg pardon, officer. I think I know this man. What's he done?"
Greg's good clothes and assured air were not without their effect. The policeman was disposed to be complaisant. "Attempted suicide. Jumped off a Houston Street ferry, he did. A deckhand pulled him out."
The crowd, delighted to receive exact information as to the affair, waited open-mouthed for more. The prisoner glanced at Greg with indifferent, lack-luster eyes. He said nothing.
"He's soaking wet," said Greg. "And at this time of year——"
"I'm keeping him walking," said the blue-coat. "And the station is but a block away. We'll give him blankets there."