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