'I didn't suppose you did keep it, but you can mix it, I guess, even
in this hotel.'

'This isn't an American hotel, sir.' The calculated insolence of the
words was cleverly masked beneath an accent of humble
submission.

The alert, middle-aged man sat up straight, and gazed placidly at
Jules, who was pulling his famous red side-whiskers.

'Get a liqueur glass,' he said, half curtly and half with
good-humoured tolerance, 'pour into it equal quantities of
maraschino, cream, and crême de menthe. Don't stir it; don't
shake it. Bring it to me. And, I say, tell the bar-tender - '

'Bar-tender, sir?'

'Tell the bar-tender to make a note of the recipe, as I shall probably
want an Angel Kiss every evening before dinner so long as this
weather lasts.'

'I will send the drink to you, sir,' said Jules distantly. That was his
parting shot, by which he indicated that he was not as other waiters
are, and that any person who treated him with disrespect did so at
his own peril.

A few minutes later, while the alert, middle-aged man was tasting
the Angel Kiss, Jules sat in conclave with Miss Spencer, who had
charge of the bureau of the Grand Babylon. This bureau was a
fairly large chamber, with two sliding glass partitions which