BLIND to his surroundings, mechanically retracing his steps to the railway station, Dave Henderson swung along the street. He walked as though he would outwalk his thoughts—fast, indifferent to all about him. He clung stubbornly to the fury in which he had sought refuge, and which he had aroused within himself against Millman. He clung to this tenaciously now, because he sensed a persistent attempt on the part of some unwelcome and unfamiliar other-self to argue the pros and cons, both of Millman's motives and Millman's acts; an attempt, that sought to introduce a wedge doubt into his mind, that sought to bring about a wavering of purpose with the insidious intent of robbing him, if it could, of the reward that was now within his grasp.

Within his grasp! He laughed out sharply, as he hurried along. It was literally within his grasp! The reward was his now—his absolutely, concretely, tangibly—the hundred thousand dollars was in this innocent-looking parcel that was at this precise moment tucked under his arm. He laughed out again. There was enough in that one fact to occupy his mind and attention, and to put to utter rout and confusion those other thoughts that endeavored to make cunning and tricky inroads upon him. It shattered and swept aside, as though by the waving of some magical wand, every mental picture he had drawn of himself in New York, every plan that he had made for his sojourn here.

He had been prepared to spend weeks and months of unceasing effort to run Millman to earth; he had planned to rake the dens and dives of the underworld, to live as one of its sordid and outlawed inhabitants, if necessary, in order to get upon Millman's track; he had meant to play Millman at his own game until he had trapped Millman and the final showdown came. And, instead, he had scarcely been in New York an hour, and he was walking now along the street with the hundred thousand dollars under his arm, with Millman no longer a vicious and stealthy antagonist to be foiled and fought wherever he might be found—with nothing to do now but spend or employ this money under his arm as his fancy or his judgment dictated, free of all hindrance or restraint, for Millman was no longer a source of danger or concern, and Dave Henderson was dead to the world in general and to the police in particular, and that left Barty Lynch as the unfettered possessor of one hundred thousand dollars!

Millman had given him a month, and—ah! he was back on that tack, was he? He clenched his hand. No! A month represented time, and it was time in a purely abstract way that he was considering now; it had nothing to do with Millman, or Millman's “month,” It would take time to make new plans and new arrangements. He did not intend to act hastily.

He had come by that money by too brutally hard a road not to realize the worth of every cent of it. He needed time now to think out the future carefully. He was not a fool—to scatter that money to the winds. A thousand times in prison he had buoyed himself up with the knowledge that in the returns from that sum of money lay independence for life. That was what he had taken it for in the first place! It meant, safely invested, a minimum of five thousand dollars a year. He could get along very well, even luxuriously, on five thousand a year! He had only now to decide where and how he should invest that money; and he needed only now the time to arrive at that decision without any undue haste that might afterwards be bitterly regretted. Would he go to Australia, or to South America, for example, and begin life anew there as a gentleman of independent means? Or somewhere in Europe, perhaps? It needed time now to make this decision, and, as a natural corollary, a temporary abode was required, an abode where he could feel quite secure, both as regards his money, and as against any eleventh-hour trick of fate that might disclose his identity and spill the fat into the fire.

Well, he had had that latter problem solved for him from the first, hadn't he? There was Dago George's; and in his pocket was Nicolo Capriano's letter that was an “open sesame” to Dago George's hospitality, and, more vital still, to Dago George's fidelity. He was going there now, as soon as he got his dress-suit case again from the station which now loomed ahead of him down the block.

His thoughts reverted to Nicolo Capriano, and, from the old Italian, to the old Italian's daughter. Teresa! He had not forgotten Teresa! Again and again, in those jolting boxcars, and during his flight from San Francisco, there had come a mental picture in which those fearless eyes had met his, and he had seen her smile, and watched the color mount and crimson her face as it had done on that occasion when he had first seen her.

He had not forgotten Teresa, he had not tried to; he had even invited those mental pictures of her. It was like some fragrant and alluring memory that had seemed to ding to him, and he had dung to it. Some day he wanted to see Teresa again—and she was the only woman toward whom he had ever felt that way. He wasn't in love with her, that was ridiculous, unless he had fallen in love with her since he had left her! But of one thing he was distinctly conscious, and that was that her attitude on that last night, when she had let him go in so strange a way, still plagued and tormented him. It was as though she had slammed the door of her presence in his face, and he wanted to see her again—some time—and——

Queer fancies crept into his brain. The old Italian said he was getting better. Perhaps Nicolo Capriano would like Australia, or South America—or perhaps Europe!

Dave Henderson shrugged his shoulders a little helplessly, and smiled ironically at himself, as he reached and entered the station. It was Nicolo Capriano alone, of course, of whom he was thinking! But—he shrugged his shoulders again—his immediate business now was to get to this Dago George!

He secured his dress-suit case from the parcel-room, deposited the package of banknotes in the dress-suit case, and sought a taxi. That was the easiest and most convenient way of reaching Dago George's. He did not know either in what direction or how far he had to go, and somehow, both physically and mentally, he suddenly, and for the first time, realized that he was tired.

“Chatham Square,” he told the starter, as he climbed into the taxi; and then, as the car moved forward, he leaned over and spoke to the chauffeur: “There's a fellow called Dago George who keeps a place right near there,” he said. “I don't know exactly where it is; but I guess you can find it, can't you?”

“Sure!” said the chauffeur heartily, with an extra tip in sight, “Sure! Leave it to me!”

Dave Henderson settled himself comfortably back on the seat, and relaxed. The strain of the days since he had left San Francisco, the strain of the days since the prison doors had opened and let him free, the strain of the five years behind those pitiless walls of stone and those bars of steel was gone now. The money was his, in his sole possession, here in the dress-suit case at his feet. It was the end of the bitter struggle. It was finished. He could let go now, and relax luxuriously. And, besides, he was tired.

He refused to think of Millman, because it irritated him. He refused to think of anything now, because his brain was like some weary thing, which, with a sigh of relief, stretched itself out and revelled in idleness. His future, Nicolo Capriano, Teresa—all these could wait until to-morrow, until a night's sleep, the first he would have known for many nights that was not haunted by distracting doubts and problems, should bring him fresh to the consideration of his new plans.

He lighted a cigarette and smoked, and watched the passing crowds and traffic through the window. He had only to present his letter to Dago George, and turn in for the night, with the feeling, also for the first time in many nights, of absolute security.

Dave Henderson continued to gaze out of the window. The localities through which he passed did not seem to improve. He smiled a little. He knew nothing about New York, but this was about what he had expected. Dago George was not likely either to reside or conduct his business in a very exclusive neighborhood!

Finally the taxi stopped, but only to permit the chauffeur to ask directions from a passer-by on the sidewalk. They went on again then, turned a corner, and a moment later drew up at the curb.

“I guess this is the place all right,” announced the chauffeur.

A glance confirmed the chauffeur's statement. Across the somewhat dingy window of a barroom, as he looked out, Dave Henderson read in large, white, painted letters, the legend:

THE IRON TAVERN

GEORGES VARDI, PROP.

That was Dago George's name, he remembered Nicolo Capriano had told him—Georges Vardi. He alighted, paid and dismissed the chauffeur, and stood for an instant on the sidewalk surveying the place.

It was a small and old three-story frame building. The barroom, to which there was a separate entrance, bordered on a lane at his right; while, almost bisecting the building, another door, wide open, gave on a narrow hall—and this, in turn, as he could see through the end window at his left, gave access to the restaurant, such as it was, for at several small tables here the occupants were engaged in making a belated dinner. Above, there was a light or two in the second story windows, the third story was in complete darkness.

It was certainly not over-prepossessing, and he shrugged his shoulders, half in a sort of philosophical recognition of a fact that was to be accepted whether or no, and half in a sort of acquiescent complacence. It was the sort of a place he wanted for the present anyhow!

Dave Henderson chose the restaurant entrance. An Italian waiter, in soiled and spotted apron, was passing along the hall. Dave Henderson hailed the man.

“I want to see Dago George,” he said.

The waiter nodded.

“I tell-a da boss,” he said.

Again Dave Henderson surveyed the place—what he could see of the interior now. It had evidently been, in past ages, an ordinary dwelling house. The stairs, set back a little from the entrance, came down at his right, and at the foot of these there was a doorway into the barroom. At his left was the restaurant which he had already seen through the window. Facing him was the narrow hall, quite long, which ended in a closed door that boasted a fanlight; also there appeared to be some other mysterious means of egress under the stairs from the hall, an entrance to the kitchen perhaps, which might be in the cellar, for the waiter had disappeared in that direction.

The door with the fanlight at the rear of the hall opened now, and a tall, angular man, thin-faced and swarthy, thrust out his head. His glance fell upon Dave Henderson.

“I'm Dago George—you want to see me?” His voice, with scarcely a trace of accent, was suave and polite—the hotel-keeper's voice of diplomacy, tentatively gracious pending the establishment of an intruder's identity and business, even though the intrusion upon his privacy might be unwelcome.

Dave Henderson smiled, as he picked up his dress-suit case and stepped forward. He quite understood. The proprietor of The Iron Tavern, though he remained uninvitingly upon the threshold of the door, was not without tact!

“Yes,” said Dave Henderson; and smiled again, as he set down his dress-suit case in front of the blocked doorway, and noted an almost imperceptible frown cross Dago George's face as the other's eyes rested on that article. His hand went into his pocket for Nicolo Capriano's letter—but remained there. He was curious now to see, or, rather, to compare the reception of a stranger with the reception accorded to one vouched for by the old bomb king in San Francisco. “Yes,” he said; “I'd like to get a room here for a few days.”

“Ah!” Dago George's features suddenly expressed pain and polite regret. “I am so sorry—yes! I do not any longer keep a hotel. In the years ago—yes. But not now. It did not pay. The restaurant pays much better, and the rooms above for private dining parties bring the money much faster. I am desolated to turn you away; but since I have no rooms, I have no rooms, eh? So what can I do?”

Dave Henderson studied the other's face complacently. The man was not as old as Nicolo Capriano; the man's hair was still black and shone with oil, and in features he was not Nicolo Capriano at all; but somehow it was Nicolo Capriano, only in another incarnation perhaps. He nodded his head. He was not sorry to learn that The Iron Tavern was ultraexclusive!

“That's too bad,” he said quietly. “I've come a long way—from a friend of yours. Perhaps that may make some difference?”

“A friend?” Dago George was discreetly interested.

“Nicolo Capriano,” said Dave Henderson.

Dago George leaned suddenly forward, staring into Dave Henderson's eyes.

“What!” he exclaimed. “What is that you say? Nicolo Capriano!” He caught up the dress-suit case from the floor, and caught Dave Henderson's arm, and pulled him forward into the room, and closed the door behind them. “You come from Nicolo Ca-priano, you say? Ah, yes, my friend, that is different; that is very different. There may still be some rooms here, eh? Ha, ha! Yes, yes!”

“You may possibly already have heard something from him about me,” said Dave Henderson. “Barty Lynch is the name.”

Dago George shook his head.

“Not a word. It is long, very long, since I have heard from Nicolo Capriano. But I do not forget him—no one forgets Nicolo Capriano. And you have come from Nicolo, eh? You have some message then—eh, my friend?”

Dave Henderson extended the old bomb king's letter.

Dago George motioned to a chair, as he ripped the envelope open.

“You will excuse, while I read it—yes?” he murmured, already engrossed in its contents.

Dave Henderson, from the proffered chair, looked around the room. It was blatantly a combination of sleeping room and office. In one corner was a bed; against the wall facing the door there was a safe; and an old roll-top desk flanked the safe on the other side of the only window that the room possessed. His eyes, from their cursory survey of his surroundings, reverted to Dago George. The man had folded up the letter, and was stretching out his hands effusively.

“Ah, it is good!” Dago George ejaculated. “Yes, yes! Anything—anything that I can do for you is already as good as done. I say that from my heart. You are Barty Lynch—yes? And you come from the old master? Well, that is enough. A room! You may be sure there is a room! And now—eh— you have not perhaps dined yet? And what else is there? It is long, very long! You may be sure there is a room! And now—eh—you have not perhaps dined yet? And what else is there? It is long, very long, since I have heard from the old master the old master? Well, that is enough. A room! You may be sure there is a room! ”

Dave Henderson laughed.

“There is nothing else—and not even that,” he said. “There was a dining-car on the train to-night. There's not a thing, except to show me my room and let me turn in.”

“But, yes!” exclaimed Dago George. “Yes, that, of course! But wait! The old master! It is long since I have heard from him. He says great things of you; and so you, too, are a friend of Nicolo Capriano. Well, then, it is an occasion, this meeting! We will celebrate it! A little bottle of wine, eh? A little bottle of wine!”

Dave Henderson shook his head.

“No,” he said, and smiled. “As a matter of fact, I'm rather all in; and, if you don't mind, I'll hit the hay to-night pronto.”

Dago George raised his hands protestingly.

“But what would Nicolo Capriano say to me for such hospitality as that!” he cried. “So, if not a bottle, then at least a little glass, eh? You will not refuse! We will drink his health—the health of Nicolo Capriano! Eh? Wait! Wait!” And he rushed pell-mell from the room, as though his life depended upon his errand.

Dave Henderson laughed again. The man with his volubility and effervescence amused him.

Dago George was back in a few minutes with a tray and two glasses of wine. He offered one of the glasses with an elaborate bow to Dave Henderson.

“It is the best in my poor house,” he said, and held the other glass aloft to the light. “To Nicolo Capriano! To the old master! To the master of them all!” he cried—and drank, rolling his wine on his tongue like a connoisseur.

Dave Henderson drained his glass.

“To Nicolo Capriano!” he echoed heartily.

“Good!” said Dago George brightly. “One more little glass? No? You are sure? Well, you have said that you are tired—eh? Well, then, to make you comfortable! Come along with me!” He picked up the dress-suit case, opened the door, and led the way into the hall He was still talking as he mounted the stairs. “There will be many things for us to speak about, eh? But that will be for to-morrow. We are perhaps all birds of a feather—eh—or Nicolo Capriano perhaps would not have sent you here? Well, well—to-morrow, my friend, if you care to. But I ask nothing, you understand? You come and you go, and you talk, or you remain silent, as you wish. Is it not so? That is what Nicolo Capriano writes—and it is enough.” He paused at the second-story landing. “You see,” he said, waving his hand around the dimly lighted passage. “Little private dining-rooms! But there is no business to-night. Another flight, my friend, and perhaps we shall find better accommodations there.”

It was as the other had said. Partially opened doors showed the three or four small rooms, that opened off the hall, to be fitted up as dining-rooms. Dave Henderson made no comment, as he followed the other up the next flight of stairs. He was tired. He had been telling himself lazily so from the moment he had taken the taxi. He was acutely aware of it now. It was the relaxation, of course—but he had become of a sudden infernally sleepy.

Dago George unlocked a door at the head of the third floor landing, entered, deposited the dress-suit case on the floor, and turned on the light. He handed the key of the room to Dave Henderson.

“It is plain, it is not rich,” he said apologetically; “but the bed is good, and you will be quiet here, my friend, very quiet—eh?—you can take my word for that.”

“It looks good to me, all right!” said Dave Henderson, and stifled a yawn. “I certainly owe you my best thanks.”

Dago George shrugged his shoulders in expostulation.

“But it is nothing!” he protested. “Do you not come from Nicolo Capriano? Well, that is enough. But—you yawn! No, no; do not try to hide it! It is I who am to blame. I talk—and you would rest. But, one thing, my friend, before I go. It is my curiosity. The letter—it is signed by Nicolo Capriano, and I know the signature well—but it is written by a woman, is it not? How is that? I am curious. But perhaps you do not know?”

“Yes,” Dave Henderson answered, and yawned frankly this time, and smiled by way of apology. “It was his daughter who wrote it. Nicolo Capriano is sick.”

“Sick!” repeated Dago George. “I did not know! But it is so long since I have heard from him—yes? He is not very sick, perhaps?”

“I don't know,” replied Dave Henderson sleepily. “He's been laid up in bed for three years now, I think.”

“Godam!” ejaculated the Italian. “Is that so! But to-morrow—eh?—we will talk to-morrow. Goodnight, my friend! Good-night—and sleep well!”

“Good-night!” responded Dave Henderson.

He closed and locked the door as Dago George went out, and, sitting down on the edge of the bed, looked at his watch. It was a quarter to ten.

“I'll stretch out for ten minutes before I turn in,” said Dave Henderson to himself—but at the end of ten minutes Dave Henderson was asleep.