was a trifle exaggerated; for, instead of singling him out at
first glance, the new-comer paused at a respectful distance inside
the door and allowed his eyes to shift uncertainly from one to
another as if in doubt as to which was his quarry. Anthony did not
dream that it was his own resemblance to the Missourian that led
to this confusion, but in fact, while he and Locke were totally
unlike when closely compared, they were of a similar size and
coloring, and the same general description would have fitted both.

Having allowed the intruder a moment in which to take in the room,
Kirk leaned back in his chair and nodded for him to approach.

"Cigars!" he ordered. "Bring a box of Carolinas."

"Yes, sir. Are you Mr. Locke, sir?" inquired the new waiter.

"Yes," said Kirk.

"Telephone message for you, Mr. Locke," the waiter muttered.

"What's that?" Anthony queried, loud enough for the others to
hear.

"Somebody calling you by 'phone. They're holding the wire outside.
I'll show you the booth."

"Oh, will you?" Kirk Anthony's hands suddenly shot out and seized
the masquerader by the throat. The man uttered a startled gasp,
but simultaneously the iron grip of Marty Ringold fell upon his
arms and doubled them behind him, while Kirk gibed: