The listener now tried to pacify her, knowing that this was just what would make her talk the more, and when he left her on her doorstep in First Avenue, he felt he had now "something to go on with." The old Italian, needless to say, was Sergeant Collins. Antonio Barracola lived in an old-fashioned three-storeyed brick house in Greenwich Street. The house next door on the right was occupied by his brother Giacomo, who was proprietor of an express and luggage transportation business. The house on the left, curiously enough, was tenanted by a policeman, who was himself a naturalized Italian. This man was guardedly questioned, and informed the detectives that Barracola had no visitors whatever at his house, and that he never came home on Monday nights, when he was supposed to stay with an elder sister in Jersey City. The next Monday Mr. Barracola, on leaving his bank at four o'clock in the afternoon, was shadowed by two officers, one dressed as a working man and the other as an Italian longshoreman. These two saw that directly Barracola left his office a stalwart fellow of exceptionally powerful build followed close behind him, keeping one hand in a side coat-pocket. The stranger was evidently intended as a sort of rear-guard, for he kept his eyes roving in all directions, making the work of the detectives most difficult. One of the latter accordingly hurried by a short cut to the Jersey City Ferry, catching a boat across before Barracola, and thus attracting less attention. Meanwhile the banker and his two followers arrived in Jersey City. Barracola stopped at a saloon near the station, but soon emerged, smoking a cigar. He walked westward for some five minutes; then, turning sharply at a corner, was lost to view by the time his followers reached the place. The big Italian was the first to reach the intersecting street, where he swung round and scanned both sides of the road narrowly, but the officers, prepared for some such manœuvre, had taken due precautions. One entered the doorway of a shop; the other walked straight on. Just at the corner where the banker had turned there stood a one-storey wooden building, occupied by an Italian barber. Barracola's rear-guard, evidently satisfied with the results of his scrutiny, presently entered this shop, and Sergeant Collins now coming up saw that although the man had gone in there was no sign of him inside; there were two chairs there, but no customers. The officer walked away, returning on the other side of the street, keeping close to the buildings. Soon he saw another visitor enter the shop, then a second; and within an hour nine well-dressed men had disappeared through the doorway. Sergeant Collins now sent one of his own men in to have his hair cut. This officer discovered that there were no doors leading out of the place other than that leading into the street, and the barber seemed in a hurry to get rid of him, cutting his hair "in less than no time."