The stout man spoke in a low tone of confidence.
"Senators make this their place of entertainment," he told Anthony. "A justice of the Supreme Court is now drinking in the bar."
"A deal of travel halts here, I'd say," hinted Anthony.
"You say truth, then. I drive a-many here myself; but the public coaches also make it a place of call."
"The sloops and schooners from up and down the river also bring many patrons?" said Anthony.
"The New York packet brought two to-day," said the red-faced man. "An elderly gentleman and his daughter. They are French, I would say. Name of Lafargue. I drove them to Mrs. Craigie's a while ago."
"Then they have left the inn!" exclaimed Anthony.
"For a little space only." The man took out a thick watch of silver and consulted it carefully. "In some hours more," said he, "I shall be going after them."
The brief autumn twilight was settling into dark when Anthony left the tavern. He trudged toward Front Street at a good pace; the Trenton stage was midway in the block above Mulberry Street, and he had no trouble in finding the house of Dr. King—a wide, well-kept building of red brick with white stone steps and hitching-post, and black, varnished rails.
Dr. King greeted him cordially and led him into a thickly carpeted room, with Eastern hangings, and a chandelier, glittering with a score of wax-lights. Mrs. King was a tall woman, stately, with a fine-cut face and an ease of manner not usual with women of the young republic.