"Have you seen Mr. Farringford to-day?" I timidly asked one of the bar-tenders, who was disengaged.
"He has been here two or three times to-day," replied the man.
"Do you know where he is now?"
"I haven't the least idea. He hangs round Forstellar's, I think."
"Where is that?"
"It is a gambling-house," he added, giving me the street and number.
"What does Mr. Farringford do?" I asked, rather startled at being directed to a gambling-house.
"Do? Nothing," said the man, contemptuously. "He used to be a runner for a gambling-house, and followed this business as long as he could keep sober enough to do it."
"What is a runner?"