"The street of St. Angelo," he repeated to himself; "one Francisco."
Selecting a lad who was playing in the street, he enquired the way of him.
"Up there to the right, then to the left sharp. It's the last street in that direction," he was told, the boy evidently seeing nothing strange about him. Tom promptly took the direction indicated, and, following the turnings in succession, came to the street he was searching for.
"Francisco lives at a cabaret at the corner," he reminded himself. "There it is: 'Michael Francisco, dealer in wine.' And there's the fellow himself."
A beetle-browed, untidy individual was sitting just within the entrance to the cabaret, warming his toes at a charcoal brazier. From a room within came the sound of voices, the tinkle of a stringed instrument, and the chink of glasses, while from a spot still farther away, perhaps in the back regions of the dwelling, the voice of a scolding woman could be heard, drowning the other sounds completely for some few seconds. Tom looked cautiously about him, and then sauntered up to the door.
"One Francisco?" he asked. "Of the street of St. Angelo?"
"The same," came the immediate answer, while the proprietor of the place looked him over sharply. "And you?"
"Someone with a message from Oporto for you to deal with. Here it is."
An exclamation of delight broke from the man, who at once seized the envelope. "You have orders to wait, then, my friend?" he asked.
"I have; I shall seek a lodging down the street. To-night I will come for the answer."
"Then step inside now and take a glass," the man said promptly. "To-night there shall be an answer. Come, a glass. Ho there, wine!" he shouted.
The scolding voice ceased of a sudden, while a woman appeared at the door of a room located at the end of the passage. Some five minutes later she brought a tray containing glasses, and poured wine into two of them.
"To our success!" cried Francisco, lifting his glass and speaking significantly.
"And may you get what every traitor deserves," thought Tom as he lifted his own allowance. "To you!" he cried, tipping the glass upward.
It was just at that moment that, glancing through the bottom of his upturned glass, and aslant through the open door of the cabaret, which being set at the corner of the street commanded a long view of it, our hero caught sight of four French grenadiers hastening along it. At their head was one who was almost a giant! His flowing moustaches and the breadth of his shoulders seemed strangely familiar, while a second look convinced Tom that it was the very man who had stood sentry at the gate and had admitted him.