Presently,--at no great lapse of time after the short and thick-set man had stowed away his watch,--out of the thronged sidewalks of Seventh Avenue a man appeared, walking west on the north side of the street and reviewing carelessly the numbers on the illuminated fanlights: a tall man, dressed all in grey, and swinging a thin walking stick. The short, thick-set person assumed a mien of more intense abstraction than ever. The tall man in grey paused indefinitely before the brownstone stoop of the house numbered 205, then swung up the steps and into the vestibule. Here he halted, bending over to scrutinize the names on the letter-boxes. The short, thick-set man reluctantly detached himself from his polished pillar and waddled ungracefully across the street. The policeman on the corner seemed suddenly interested in Seventh Avenue; and walked in that direction. The grey man, having vainly deciphered all the names on one side of the vestibule, straightened up and turned his attention to the opposite wall, either unconscious of or indifferent to the shuffle of feet on the stoop behind him. The short, thick-set man removed one hand from a pocket and tapped the grey man gently on the shoulder. "Lookin' for McCabe, Anisty?" he inquired genially. The grey man turned slowly, exhibiting a countenance blank with astonishment. "Beg pardon?" he drawled; and then, with a dawning gleam of recognition in his eyes: "Why, good evening, Hickey! What brings you up this way?" The short, thick-set man permitted his jaw to droop and his eyes to protrude for some seconds. "Oh," he said in a tone of great disgust, "hell!" He pulled himself together with an effort. "Excuse _me_, Mr. Maitland," he stammered, "I wasn't lookin' for yeh." "To the contrary, I gather from your greeting that you were expecting our friend, Mr. Anisty?" And the grey man smiled. Hickey smiled in sympathy, but with less evident relish of the situation's humor. "That's right," he admitted. "Got a tip from the C'miss'ner's office this evening that Anisty would be here at seven o'clock lookin' for a party named McCabe. I guess it's a bum tip, all right; but of course I got to look into it." "Most assuredly." The grey man bent and inspected the names again. "I am hunting up an old friend," he explained carelessly: "a man named Simmons--knew him in college--down on his luck--wrote me yesterday. There he is: fourth floor, east. I'll see you when I come down, I hope, Mr. Hickey." The automatic lock clicked and the door swung open; the grey man passing through and up the stairs. Hickey, ostentatiously ignoring the existence of the policeman, returned to his post of observation. At eight o'clock he was still there, looking bored. At eight-thirty he was still there, wearing a puzzled expression.