“No.”
“What did he look like?”
“He looked like a counting-house clerk more than any thing.”
“When was it left?”
“About six o’clock this morning.”
Langhetti read it over and over. The news that it contained filled his mind. It was not yet ten o’clock. He would not take any breakfast, but went out at once, jumped into a cab, and drove off to Red Lion Street.
Giovanni Cavallo’s office was in a low, dingy building, with a dark, narrow doorway. It was one of those numerous establishments conducted and supported by foreigners whose particular business it is not easy to conjecture. The building was full of offices, but this was on the ground-floor.
Langhetti entered, and found the interior as dingy as the exterior. There was a table in the middle of the room. Beyond this was a door which opened into a back-room.
Only one person was here—a small, bright-eyed man, with thick Vandyke beard and sinewy though small frame. Langhetti took off his hat and bowed.
“I wish to see Signore Cavallo,” said he, in Italian.