In a small saloon near the East River and between the Fulton and Catharine ferries Mike Quick resided. Mr. Quick had several disfiguring marks. Both his cheeks had been slashed some time by a knife, part of one ear was gone, and his great rubicund nose was broken.
His eyes were deep set and overshadowed by heavy gray brows.
He was big in build, and probably fifty years of age. Quite a number of those years had been passed by Quick behind prison-bars. Taken all in all, he was not the sort of chap a man would care to meet in a lonely place after dark.
Quick was behind his dirty and antiquated bar when Burt entered, early in the evening of the day he had interviewed Stolburst’s banker friends.
Mike knew the detective quite well.
“How are you, Burt?”
The man’s voice was hoarse and guttural.
“Glad to see me, of course?”
“Can’t say that I am. Whom do you expect to find here?”
“How do you know I am looking to find any one?”