Holcombe turned upon him sharply.  “I am not here on your account, Mr. Meakim,” he said.  “You need not feel the least uneasiness, and,” he added, dropping his voice as he noticed that others were drawing near, “if you keep out of my way, I shall certainly keep out of yours.”

The Police Commissioner gave a short laugh partly of bravado and partly at his own sudden terror.  “I didn’t know,” he said, breathing with relief.  “I thought you’d come after me.  You don’t wonder you give me a turn, do you?  I was scared.”  He fanned himself with his straw hat, and ran his tongue over his lips.  “Going to be here some time, Mr. District Attorney?” he added, with grave politeness.

Holcombe could not help but smile at the absurdity of it.  It was so like what he would have expected of Meakim and his class to give every office-holder his full title.  “No, Mr. Police Commissioner,” he answered, grimly, and nodding to his boatmen, pushed his way after them and his trunks along the pier.

Meakim was waiting for him as he left the custom-house.  He touched his hat, and bent the whole upper part of his fat body in an awkward bow.  “Excuse me, Mr. District Attorney,” he began.

“Oh, drop that, will you?” snapped Holcombe.  “Now, what is it you want, Meakim?”

“I was only going to say,” answered the fugitive, with some offended dignity, “that as I’ve been here longer than you, I could perhaps give you pointers about the hotels.  I’ve tried ’em all, and they’re no good, but the Albion’s the best.”

“Thank you, I’m sure,” said Holcombe.  “But I have been told to go to the Isabella.”

“Well, that’s pretty good, too,” Meakim answered, “if you don’t mind the tables.  They keep you awake most of the night, though, and—­”

“The tables?  I beg your pardon,” said Holcombe, stiffly.

“Not the eatin’ tables; the roulette tables,” corrected Meakim.  “Of course,” he continued, grinning, “if you’re fond of the game, Mr. Holcombe, it’s handy having them in the same house, but I can steer you against a better one back of the French Consulate.  Those at the Hotel Isabella’s crooked.”

Holcombe stopped uncertainly.  “I don’t know just what to do,” he said.  “I think I shall wait until I can see our consul here.”

“Oh, he’ll send you to the Isabella,” said Meakim, cheerfully.  “He gets two hundred dollars a week for protecting the proprietor, so he naturally caps for the house.”

Holcombe opened his mouth to express himself, but closed it again, and then asked, with some misgivings, of the hotel of which Meakim had first spoken.

“Oh, the Albion.  Most all the swells go there.  It’s English, and they cook you a good beefsteak.  And the boys generally drop in for table d’hote.  You see, that’s the worst of this place, Mr. Holcombe; there’s nowhere to go evenings—­no club-rooms nor theatre nor nothing; only the smoking-room of the hotel or that gambling-house; and they spring a double naught on you if there’s more than a dollar up.”