“By Jove, Ken,” laughed Webster, “do you know I’d almost expect you to venture a burglary if you knew exactly where to head the enterprise. You’ve got it in your eye.”
Kenyon looked at his friend with a sudden smile.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” he said. “But, now that you mention it, I’ll give it consideration.”
“Well, if you take on the job,” said Webster, tickled with the conceit, “let me know, will you, I’d like to go with you.”
Webster had a theatre party on for the night, and as the time drew near for his departure he urged Kenyon to go along. But the latter refused.
“I’ve got some thinking to do,” said he, “and I’m going to take a half-dozen cigars out with me for a walk. So trot along, old fellow; I’ll see you to-morrow night, perhaps.”
Madison Square is not much frequented during the chilly nights of late November, so Kenyon, muffled up in his overcoat, tramped up and down, drawing hard at a strong cigar and thinking deeply. At the end of the cigar he suddenly paused as though his mind had been made up to something.
“Perhaps they’ll know at the hotel,” he muttered. “It will do no harm to inquire, at any rate.”
He strode along up Fifth Avenue and turned into the Waldorf-Astoria. One of the hotel’s private policemen saluted him in the lobby, and Kenyon called him aside.
“I’m looking for information,” said he. “There is a man I know slightly who comes here, I think, at times. His name is Farbush.” Here Kenyon described the man. “Can you tell me where he lives?”