It was well on toward three o'clock in the morning when P. Slattery, the red-headed proprietor of the Donegal Shades, was aroused from his sleep in the back room behind his saloon by a loud knocking upon the outer door.
"Now who the blazes can that be?" he muttered. "It's too early for the market-men, I'm sure. Must be some drunken tramp who hain't got full enough widout disturbin' an honest man in his bed. Go way wid yez, ye spalpeen! It's not Pat Slattery that'll open the dure for yez the night."
Thump—thump—thump!
Upon the door the knocks were rained with redoubled strength.
"Begorra, an' I'm afeard it's break me dure in he'll be after doin'," muttered the saloon-keeper, tumbling sleepily out of bed.
He crept across the darkened bar-room, and pulling aside the curtains cautiously, peered out into the deserted street.
Two men stood without.
P. Slattery recognized in their faces Messrs. Callister and Tisdale at a glance.
The stock-broker was in his shirt sleeves and hatless. He was shivering with the cold, while Reuben Tisdale, pale and haggard, stood to one side with his eyes fixed upon the ground.
The sound of the movement at the curtain, slight as it had been, had not escaped Mr. Callister's ears.