an attempt to cover his confusion, plunged madly into consideration of
a column of _table-d'hote_ French, not one word of which conveyed the
slightest particle of information to his intelligence.

"Well," he repeated, and moistened his lips. The room seemed suddenly very
hot, notwithstanding the fact that an obnoxious electric fan was sending a
current of cool air down the back of his neck.

"I ain't," he declared in ultimate desperation, "hungry, much. Had a bite a
little while back, over to the Gilsey House bar."

"Would a little drink----?"

"Thanks. I don't mind."

"Waiter, bring Mr. Hickey a bottle of Number Seventy-two. For me--let me
see--_cafe au lait_," with a grand air, "and rolls.... You must remember
this is my breakfast, Mr. Hickey. I make it a rule never to drink anything
for six hours after rising." Anisty selected a cigarette from the Maitland
case, lit it, and contemplated the detective's countenance with a winning
smile. "Now, as to this Anisty affair last night...."

Under the stimulus of the champagne, to say naught of his relief at having
evaded the ordeal of the cutlery, Hickey discoursed variously and at length
upon the engrossing subject of Anisty, gentleman-cracksman, while the
genial counterpart of Daniel Maitland listened with apparent but deceptive
apathy, and had much ado to keep from laughing in his guest's face as the
latter, perspiringly earnest, unfolded his plans for laying the burglar by
the heels.