"On the contrary," P. Sybarite retorted stiffly, "my business is
immediate and personal with Mr. Penfield. I will wait."

"Sure." Into the accents of the other there crept magically a trace of
geniality. "Will you go right on up, or would you like a bite of
somethin' to eat first?"

At the mere hint of food, a frightful pang of hunger transfixed P.
Sybarite. He winked furtively, afraid to trust Iris tongue to speech.

"What d'ya say?" insinuated the doorkeeper. "Just a bit of a snack,
eh? Say a caviare sandwich and a thimbleful of the grape?"

Abandoning false pride, P. Sybarite yielded:

"I don't mind if I do, thank you."

"Straight on back; Pete'll take care of you, all right."

A thumb indicated the door in the rear of the hall. Thither P.
Sybarite betook himself on the instant, spurred by the demands of an
appetite insatiable once it had won recognition.

He found the back room one of good proportions: whatever the
architect's original intention, now serving as a combined lounge and
grill, richly and comfortably furnished in sober, masculine fashion,
boasting in all three buffets set forth with a lavish display of food
and drink. In one of many deeply upholstered club chairs a gentleman
of mature years and heavy body, with a scarlet face and a crumpled,