In a room on the third floor of a miserable tenement house in Centre street two men were sitting. Each had a forbidding exterior, and neither was in any danger of being mistaken for a peaceful, law-abiding citizen. One, attired in a red shirt and pants, was leaning back in his chair, smoking a clay pipe. His hair was dark and his beard nearly a week old. Over his left eye was a scar, the reminder of a wound received in one of the numerous affrays in which he had been engaged.
This was Jack Morgan, already referred to as the guardian of the boy Julius. He was certainly a disreputable-looking ruffian, and his character did not belie his looks.
The other man was taller, better dressed, and somewhat more respectable in appearance. But, like Jack, he, too, was a social outlaw, and the more dangerous that he could more easily assume an air of respectability, and pass muster, if he chose, as an honest man.
"Well, Marlowe," said Jack Morgan to the latter, who had just entered, "how's business?"
"Not very good," said Marlowe, shaking his head. "I haven't been so hard up for a long time. You haven't lost much by being shut up."
"I've had my board and lodging free," said Morgan; "but I'd rather look out for myself. I don't like free hotels." Marlowe smiled.
"That's where you're right, Jack. I never tried it but once, and then I didn't like it any better than you."
"You're a sharp one. You always cover your tracks."
"The cops don't often get hold of me," said Marlowe, with pride. "You remember that big bond robbery a year ago?"
"Yes. You wasn't in that?"