s Slip. It was called the Albion House. The lower floor
was a bar-room, and two or three sinister-looking characters lounged
about the room. Mr. Norris ordered beer; then he leaned across to the
barman and whispered a question.

"Why, yes," returned the barman, looking hard at Mr. Norris as though to
read his errand, "Bill's been here. But it's on the square; he ain't
doin' nothin'. I don't think he's seein' company neither."

"This is on the level, Dan," said Mr. Norris, who appeared to be on
terms of acquaintance with the barman. "Let me make you known to Mr.
Brown," he continued, introducing Storri. "Now here's all there is to
it. Mr. Brown thinks Bill can put him wise to a party he's got business
with. There's no pinch goes with it, and Mr. Brown's willing to do the
handsome."

"Well," replied the barman doubtfully, "if Bill's about, I'll see what
he thinks himself." With this, the barman, who was a brutal specimen
with lumpy shoulders and a nose that had seen better days, called one of
the loungers to preside in his stead, and retired through a door to the
rear. He returned in a moment saying that Bill would see the caller, and
jerked his stubby thumb in the direction of a back room.

"This is a boozing ken for hold-up people," explained Mr. Norris in a
whisper, as he and Storri obeyed the hint tendered by the barman's
thumb. "That bar-keep, Dan, used to be a strong-arm man himself; but
since he's got this joint, he doesn't do any work, and has turned
fall-guy for a fleet that operates along the Bowery."

Storri knew nothing of "strong-arm men," and "fall-guys," and "fleets,"
but he put no questions, and only seemed intent on meeting London Bill.

In the rear room that formidable outlaw was discovered seated at a
table. He was alone, and evidently had just come from upstairs, as a
door leading to the stairway was ajar. Mr. Norris presented Storri to
London Bill, and, this social ceremony over, made few words of it before
withdrawing altogether, leaving Storri and his new friend to themselves.

"Suppose we drink something," said London Bill, in noncommittal tones.

Storri ordered beer in a bottle, cork untouched; Storri had heard of
knockout mixtures, and did not care to make his advent into upper
criminal circles in the role of victim. London Bill grinned in a wise
way, but made no comment, calling for gin himself.

"What is it?" said London Bill, after the gin had appeared and
disappeared; "what's the arg