These convictions filled his mind when, having bid good-by to Kitty—­who knew nothing of his interview with the priest—­he buttoned his mackintosh close up to his throat, tucked his blackthorn stick under his arm, and, pressing his hat well on his head, bent his steps toward the East Side.  A light rain was falling and most of the passers-by were carrying umbrellas.  Overhead thundered the trains of the Elevated—­a continuous line of lights flashing through the clouds of mist.  Underneath stretched Third Avenue, its perspective dimmed in a slowly gathering fog.

As he tramped on, the brim of his soft hat shadowing his brow, he scanned without ceasing the faces of those he passed:  the men with collars turned up, the women under the umbrellas—­especially those with small feet.  At 28th Street he entered a cheap restaurant, its bill of fare, written on a pasteboard card and tacked on the outside, indicating the modest prices of the several viands.

He had had no particular reason for selecting this eating-house from among the others.  He had passed several just like it, and was only accustoming himself to his new line of search; for that purpose, one eating-house was as good as another.

Drawing out a chair from a table, he sat down and ran his eye over the interior.

What he saw was a collection of small tables, flanked by wooden chairs, their tops covered with white cloths and surmounted by cheap casters, a long bar with the usual glistening accessories, and a flight of steps which led to the floor above.  His entrance, quiet as it had been, had evidently attracted some attention, for a waiter in a once-white apron detached himself from a group of men in the far corner of the room and, picking up, as he passed, a printed card from a table, asked him what he would have to eat.

“Nothing—­not now.  I will sit here and smoke.”  He loosened his mackintosh and drew his pipe from his pocket, adding:  “Hand me a match, please.”

The waiter looked at him dubiously.  “Ain’t you goin’ to order nothin’?”

“Not yet—­perhaps not at all.  Do you object to my smoking here?”

“Don’t object to nothin’, but this ain’t no place to warm up in, see!”

Felix looked at him, and a faint smile played about his lips—­the first that had lightened them all day.  “I shan’t ask you to start a fresh fire,” he said in a decided tone; “and now, do as I bid you, and pass me that box of matches.”

The man caught the tone and expression, placed the box beside him, and joined the group in the rear.  There was a whispered conference, and a stout man wearing a dingy jacket disengaged himself from the others and lounged toward Felix.

“Nasty night,” he began.  “Had a lot of this weather this month.  Never see a December like it.”

“Yes, a bad night.  Your servant seemed to think I was in the way.  Are you the proprietor?”

“Well, I am one of them.  Why?”