Street side of the building.
But nothing of the sort was afoot. A darky orchestra was playing a jazz
tune very loudly in the cafe at the left of the Broadway entrance, so it
was not only possible but very likely that the sounds of the shots had
not been heard inside the hotel at all. Certainly his eye, sweeping the
place, discovered no evidences of any unusual stir. Perhaps half a
dozen individuals were traversing the tiled floor, but none of them in
any seeming hurry.

With no suggestion of agitation about him anywhere and with nothing
furtive or stealthy in his movements, Trencher boldly passed the corner
of the desk, crossed the lobby, went along the front of the news stand,
where a young woman stood among her wares, and through another set of
revolving doors came out upon Broadway. It was that one hour of the
night--a quarter of eleven o'clock, while the last acts are still going
on and before the theatres give up their audiences--when Broadway's
sidewalks are not absolutely overflowing with jostling, pouring currents
of people. Numbers were abroad, for numbers always are abroad in this
part of the town, be the time of day or of night what it may, but there
was no congestion. This was as it should be; it suited this man's
purposes exactly.

He issued forth, and a few rods north of the corner saw the person for
whom he was seeking; at least he saw a most likely candidate--a ragged
darky, in a district where ragged darkies unless they be beggars are not
often seen, who with his hands in his pockets and his coat collar turned
up was staring into the window of a small clothing shop two doors above
the narrow-fronted hotel. Trencher made for him. Remember, all
this--from the moment of the shooting until now--had taken much less
time than has been required for me to describe it in sequence or for
you to read about it.

He tapped the darky on the arm.

"Boy," he said sharply, "want to pick up some easy money quick?"

"Yas, suh, I does!" The negro's eyes shone.

"Listen then: I've got to catch a train--sooner than I expected. My
bag's packed and waiting for me up here at my boarding house in West
Forty-fifth Street--Number 374 is the address--just west of
Broadway--tall brownstone house with a high stoop. Get me? The bag's
downstairs in the hall. The hall boy--a coloured fellow named Fred--is
watching it for me. If I go in a cab I may not get to the station in
time. If you go after it for me at a run I may catch my t