Byrne bowed slightly, and threw a keen glance at Murray; but the evening was cold, and the latter was so muffled up that very little of his features could be seen.
They were still standing on the post-office steps, when Byrne, turning to Gerald, said--
"The man I am about to show you lives in the city, and has done so for several years. When in town he always dines at one particular tavern. He is generally to be found there from half-past six till half-past seven. He dined at this place yesterday and the day before, and I have no doubt that he is there at the present moment. We must wait near at hand till he comes out, and then you will have an opportunity of getting a clear view of him by the light of the lamp over the door."
Here and there in some quiet city nook may still be found one of those homely, old-fashioned taverns, innocent of lacquer-work and gilding--panelled, not with looking-glass, but with substantial mahogany, dark with age, such as were common in the days when Charles Lamb or Washington Irving were peripatetics about the streets of London, but which are becoming rarer with each recurring year. To several of these taverns is attached a dining-room, where a fried sole or a cut off a wholesome joint may be obtained as late as six or seven o'clock, and where any one who is known to the house may have a chop or a steak done to a turn up till midnight. There is no bustle and confusion here; you are not hurried over your meals; you need not quit your seat the moment you have swallowed your last mouthful, in order to make room for some one else. Day after day the same people come--punctual to the minute, as a rule. They are all on hob-nobbing terms with each other, and fresh faces are rarely seen.
It was over against such a tavern as this that our three conspirators now stationed themselves. The street was very narrow, and exactly opposite the tavern was a dark passage leading to sundry suites of offices, now silent and deserted. Within the shelter of this passage they took their stand. Not long had they to wait. Presently the swing doors were pushed open from the inner side, and the man whom they had come to see issued forth into the street--a man of fifty, or perhaps fifty-five, broad-chested, strongly built, and with a face that might have been carved out of lignumvitæ, so hard, resolute, and determined was it in every line. He stood for a moment in the full light of the lamp over the doorway, and then he walked slowly down the street.
Gerald felt Murray's grasp on his arm tighten suddenly as the man came out.
"Is that the man you wanted me to find? Is that Max Jacoby?" asked Byrne, in a low voice.
"That is Max Jacoby!" answered Murray, in a whisper.
"We must give him time to get clear away," said Byrne, "and then I will show you the place where he lives."
Five minutes later they left their hiding-place. Byrne, taking his companions through several short cuts and narrow ways, brought them presently to another part of the city, and came to a halt close against a tall, substantial-looking house. It stood in a narrow way intended for foot-passengers only, that led from one great artery of city traffic to another. One side of this footway was bounded by the blank wall of a range of huge warehouses that had their frontage in another street. The opposite boundary of the footway consisted of a low stone wall, crowned with rusty railings, that shut in an ancient graveyard. The church that once on a time had appertained to the graveyard had been demolished years ago; but the dilapidated tombstones, with their "forlorn Hic jacets" all overgrown with rank and frowsy herbage, were still there, together with a miscellaneous assortment of old shoes, broken bottles, and other rubbish. As usual, it was Nobody's business to bring about a different state of things, and Nobody did his business thoroughly by leaving it altogether undone.