“Farbush? I don’t know the name, but there is a man that comes here occasionally, and who answers to that description. Is your man a ship-owner?”
“I couldn’t say. As I mentioned, my acquaintance with him is slight.”
“I’ll see the head-waiter. If he’s a regular customer, he’ll know something about him, sure. Waiters always do.”
The man was gone but a very few minutes.
“Yes,” said he upon his return. “I think it’s the same party. He is interested in shipping. Head-waiter knows him well. Lives on Fifth Avenue, up near the park. Initials are J. F. Don’t know his number, but you’ll find it in the directory.”
Kenyon acted upon this suggestion and secured the desired address. Then he caught an uptown bus, and in a little while was standing before the house named, but upon the opposite side of the avenue.
“Mr. Farbush appears to be a person of some consequence,” he muttered. “And that only makes him a more dangerous man to contend with. But before I take any steps I’ll have to be sure that this is the same man. It would hardly do to disturb a disinterested party,” dryly.
As luck would have it, a cab drew up at that moment before the house, and a man and woman alighted. The woman Kenyon could not make out; but the man he recognized at once as he turned in the glare of the cab lamp to pay the driver. It was Farbush. Kenyon watched both up the steps and saw the door close behind them. Then he hailed the same cab.
“The Bowery and Houston Street,” directed he, as he slammed the door. Down Fifth Avenue rolled the cab, over the smooth asphalt, then into Broadway and finally Houston Street. When they pulled up at the Bowery, Kenyon got out. Handing the cabby his fare, he said:
“You look like an old New York boy.”