A dark faced _maitre d'hotel_, who presided over our portion of the room,
came up smiling, with an inquiry as to our coffee. He exchanged a casual
sentence or two with Mr. Parker, bowed and passed on. Mr. Parker, a moment
later, with a little smile lifted the newspaper. The packet had
disappeared. He noticed my look of surprise and seemed gratified.

"A mere trifle, that!" he declared. "I can assure you that I could have
taken it out of your pocket, if I had desired, without your feeling a
thing."

"Wonderful!" I murmured, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

"Just a gift!" he continued modestly. "We all have our talents, you know.
I have ordered some special coffee."

I was beginning to think rapidly now.

"By the by," I asked, "what is Mr. Cullen's profession?"

"He is a detective," Mr. Parker answered, without hesitation; "and, to my
mind, a singularly bad one. For two months he has had what they call his
eye on me. Between ourselves I think he will have his eye on me still in
another two months' time. I am sure I hope so, for I frankly admit that
half the savor of life would be gone if my friend, Mr. Cullen, were to
finally give me up as a bad job and leave me alone."

I suppose that something of what I was feeling was reflected in my face. I
had always considered myself a man of the world and I was interested
enough in my fellows to enjoy mixing with all classes.