After a moment of silence Byrne took up his whistling again. It
was the "Humoresque."

Stewart's apartment was on the third floor. Admission at that
hour was to be gained only by ringing, and Boyer touched the
bell. The lights were still on, however, in the hallways,
revealing not overclean stairs and, for a wonder, an electric
elevator. This, however, a card announced as out of order. Boyer
stopped and examined the card grimly.

"'Out of order'!" he observed. "Out of order since last spring,
judging by that card. Vorwarts!"

They climbed easily, deliberately. At home in God's country Boyer
played golf, as became the leading specialist of his county.
Byrne, with a driving-arm like the rod of a locomotive, had been
obliged to forswear the more expensive game for tennis, with a
resulting muscular development that his slight stoop belied. He
was as hard as nails, without an ounce of fat, and he climbed the
long steep flights with an elasticity that left even Boyer a step
or so behind.

Stewart opened the door himself, long German pipe in hand, his
coat replaced by a worn smoking-jacket. The little apartment was
thick with smoke, and from a room on the right came the click of
chips and the sound of beer mugs on wood.

Marie, restored to good humor, came out to greet them, and both
men bowed ceremoniously over her hand, clicking their heels
together and bowing from the waist. Byrne sniffed.