CHAPTER VII.FOLLANSBEE HITS THE NAIL.
It was little after eleven o’clock in the morning when a broad-shouldered man turned into Amsterdam Avenue and began to move slowly along the pavement, glancing now and then at the houses as he passed. His tanned face suggested that he was a man from a warmer land, and the stubborn chin and hard, sour look about the eyes were mute tokens of the surly temper that ruled the stranger. He was wearing a soft hat with a wide brim, and he had tilted it forward to shade his eyes from the sun. Once he took a slip of paper from his pocket and studied it for a moment. Evidently he was looking for an address.
Presently he caught sight of what he sought—the big bulk of St. Swithin’s Hospital, which occupied an entire block. He quickened his pace and approached th
