"Since we don't want to be overheard," remarked Mr. Anisty, "it's no
use trying the grill-room down-stairs, although I admit it is more
interesting."
"Just as yeh say, sir."
Awed and awkward, the police detective stumbled up the steps behind his
imperturbable guide; it was a great honor, in his eyes, to lunch in
company with a "swell." Man of stodgy common-sense and limited
education that he was, the glamour of the Maitland millions obscured
his otherwise clear vision completely. And uneasily he speculated as to
whether or not he would be able to manipulate correctly the usual
display of knives and forks.
An obsequious head-waiter greeted them, bowing, in the lobby. "Good
afternoon, Mr. Maitland," he murmured. "Table for two?"
"Good afternoon," responded the masquerader, with an assumed
abstraction, inwardly congratulating himself upon having hit upon a
restaurant where the real Maitland was evidently known. There were few
circumstances which he could not turn to profit, fewer emergencies to
which he could not rise, he complimented Handsome Dan Anisty.
"A table for two," he drawled Maitland-wise, "In a corner somewhere,
away from the crowd, you know."
"This way, if you please, Mr. Maitland."
"By the way," suggested the burglar, unfolding his serviette and
glancing keenly about the room,--which, by good chance, was thinly
populated, "by the way, you know, you haven't told me your name yet."
"Hickey--John W. Hickey, Detective Bureau."
"Thank you." A languid hand pushed the pink menu card across the table
to Mr. Hickey. "And what do you see that you'd like?"
"Well...." Hickey became conscious that both unwieldy feet were
nervously twined about the legs of his chair; blushed; disentangled
them; and in an attempt to cover his confusion, plunged madly into
consideration of a column of _table-d'hôte_ French, not one word of
which conveyed the slightest particle of information to his
intelligence.
"Well," he repeated, and moistened his lips. The room seemed suddenly
very hot, notwithstanding the fact that an obnoxious electric fan was
sending a current of cool air down the back of his neck.
"I ain't," he declared in ultimate desperation, "hungry, much. Had a
bite a little while back, over to the Gilsey House bar."
"Would a little drink----?"
"Thanks. I don't mind."
"Waiter, bring Mr. Hickey a bottle of Number Seventy-two. For me--let
me see--_café au lait_," with a grand air, "and rolls.... You must
remember this is my breakfast, Mr. Hickey. I make it a rule never to
drink anything for six hours after rising." Anisty selected a cigarette
from the Maitland case, lit it, and contemplated the detective's
countenance with a winning smile. "Now, as to this Anisty affair last
night...."
Under the stimulus of the champagne, to say naught of his relief at
having evaded the ordeal of the cutlery, Hickey discoursed variously
and at length upon the engrossing subject of Anisty,
gentleman-cracksman, while the genial counterpart of Daniel Maitland
listened with apparent but deceptive apathy, and had much ado to keep
from laughing in his guest's face as the latter, perspiringly earnest,
unfolded his plans for laying the burglar by the heels.
From time to time, and at intervals steadily decreasing, the hand of
the host sought the neck of the bottle, inclining it carefully above
the thin-stemmed glass that Hickey kept in almost constant motion. And
the detective's fatuous loquacity flowed as the contents of the bottle
ebbed.
Yet, as the minutes wore on, the burglar began to be conscious that it
was but a shallow well of information and amusement that he pumped. The
game, fascinating with its spice of daring as it had primarily been,
began to pall. At length the masquerader calculated the hour as ripe
for what he had contemplated from the beginning; and interrupted Hickey
with scant consideration, in the middle of a most interesting
exposition.
"You'll pardon me, I'm sure, if I trouble you again for the time."
The fat red fingers sought uncertainly for the timepiece: the bottle
was now empty. The hour, as announced, was ten minutes to two.
"I've an engagement," invented Anisty plausibly, "with a friend at two.
If you'll excuse me----? _Garçon, l'addition!_"
"Then I und'stand, Mister Maitland, we e'n count on yeh?"
Anisty, eyelids drooping, tipped back his chair a trifle and regarded
Hickey with a fair imitation of the whimsical Maitland smile. "Hardly,
I think."
"Why not?"--truculently.
"To be frank with you, I have three excellent reasons. The first should
be sufficient: I'm too lazy."
Disgruntled, Hickey stared and shook a disapproving head. "I was afraid
of that; yeh swells don't never seem to think nothin' of yer duties to
soci'ty."
Anisty airily waved the indictment aside. "Moreover, I have lost
nothing. You see, I happened in just at the right moment; our criminal
friend got nothing for his pains. The jewels are safe. Reason Number
Two: Having retained my property, I hold no grudge against Anisty."
"Well--I dunno--"
"And as for reason Number Three: I don't care to have this affair
advertised. If the papers get hold of it they'll cook up a lot of silly
details that'll excite the cupidity of every thief in the country, and
make me more trouble than I care to--ah--contemplate."
Hickey's eyes glistened. "Of course, if yeh want it kept quiet--" he
suggested significantly.