A negro of intense blackness stood revealed.  He took a hasty inventory of Bog’s old clothes, and then said, “Clare out, now!” He commenced to close the window.

“I was told to give you a half dollar,” said Bog, bethinking himself of a powerful expedient, “if you would find out whether Mr. Van Quintem was here, and hand him a letter.”

The negro’s eyes dilated, and his thick lips wreathed into a grin.

“Mr. Fan Squintem—­a little feller with a big black mustache?  I knows him.  Dunno wether he’s in, ’L see fur ye.”  The negro paused.  The interrogatory, “Where’s your half dollar?” could be plainly seen in his great eyes.

“Here it is,” said Bog.

The negro grinned his satisfaction, pocketed the coin, disappeared through another door from which there exhaled an odor of cigars and mint juleps, and returned, in a minute, with the intelligence, “He a’n’t in, Mister.  P’a’ps you want to leave some word for him?”

Bog had no time to lose.  He said, “Nothing partickler,” and hurried off, leaving the negro to puzzle over his half dollar.

At the next gambling saloon, near the junction of Broadway and Park Row, Bog simplified his method of operations.  Before making any inquiry of the servant who answered his triple rap, he thrust a half dollar at him, and then put his question.  This plan saved surly looks and explanations.  Mr. Van Quintem was a well-known patron of the establishment, but had not been there for a week:  which was rather strange, the man politely added.

Bog continued his search, walking as fast as he could.  In second stories, in third stories, in fourth stories, in the rear of ground floors, in one or two basements, among all the more fashionable gambling dens, which, at that period, lay between Fulton and Tenth streets, he picked his way.  His new system had drawn heavily upon his stock of loose silver, and he had but two half dollars left.  The question now was, how to spend them?—­for Bog knew of no more resorts of gamblers on Broadway; and there were none on any of the side streets which a man of young Van Quintem’s style would be likely to frequent.  It was the edge of evening.

The boy walked up and down between Tenth and Fourteenth streets, thinking what it would be best to do next.  He kept a sharp lookout at the passers by, hoping to see the object of his search.  He paused to rest himself a few minutes in the doorway of a photographic gallery; and, while there, observed two young men, with sickly complexions and bloodshot eyes, coming up the street.  He recognized them as young men whom he had often seen issuing from gambling places in the small hours of the morning.  They were talking briskly, and Bog pricked up his ears.

“The very d——­l’s in the cards lately,” said the whitest-faced of the two.

“Luck must have a turn,” said the other.  “By ——­” (with a horrid oath), “suppose we try Van’s?”

“Van’s?  Where’s that?”