“Yes,” said Larcher, “but in spite of the skyscrapers and the incongruities, I love the old street. Don't you?” “I used to,” said Davenport, with a listlessness that silenced Larcher, who fell into conjecture of its cause. Was it the effect of many failures? Or had it some particular source? What part in its origin had been played by the woman to whose fickleness the man had briefly alluded? And, finally, had the story behind it anything to do with Edna Hill's reasons for seeking information? Pondering these questions, Larcher found himself at the entrance to the chosen dining-place. It was a low, old-fashioned doorway, on a level with the sidewalk, a little distance off Broadway. They were just about to enter, when they heard Davenport's name called out in a nasal, overbearing voice. A look of displeasure crossed Davenport's brow, as both young men turned around. A tall, broad man, with a coarse, red face; a man with hard, glaring eyes and a heavy black mustache; a man who had intruded into a frock coat and high silk hat, and who wore a large diamond in his tie; a man who swung his arms and used plenty of the surrounding space in walking, as if greedy of it,--this man came across the street, and, with an air of proprietorship, claimed Murray Davenport's attention. CHAPTER III. A READY-MONEY MAN “I want you,” bawled the gentleman with the diamond, like a rustic washerwoman summoning her offspring to a task. “I've got a little matter for you to look after. S'pose you come around to dinner, and we can talk it over.” “I'm engaged to dine with this gentleman,” said Davenport, coolly. “Well, that's all right,” said the newcomer. “This gentleman can come, too.” “We prefer to dine here,” said Davenport, with firmness. “We have our own reasons. I can meet you later.” “No, you can't, because I've got other business later. But if you're determined to dine here, I can dine here just as well. So come on and dine.” Davenport looked at the man wearily, and at Larcher apologetically; then introduced the former to the latter by the name of Bagley. Vouchsafing a brief condescending glance and a rough “How are you,” Mr. Bagley led the way into the eating-house, Davenport chagrinned on Larcher's account, and Larcher stricken dumb by the stranger's outrage upon his self-esteem. Nothing that Mr. Bagley did or said later was calculated to improve the state of Larcher's feelings toward him. When the three had passed from the narrow entrance and through a small barroom to a long, low apartment adorned with old prints and playbills, Mr. Bagley took by conquest from another intending party a table close to a street window. He spread out his arms over as much of the table as they would cover, and evinced in various ways the impulse to grab and possess, which his very manner of walking had already shown. He even talked loud, as if to monopolize the company's hearing capacity.