was alive even at midday.

It was noon, and Terry found that the dining room was packed to the last
chair. The sweating waiter improvised a table for him in the corner of
the hall and kept him waiting twenty minutes before he was served with
ham and eggs. He had barely worked his fork into the ham when a familiar
voice hailed him.

"Got room for another at that table?"

He looked up into the grinning face of Denver. For some reason it was a
shock to Terry. Of course, the second meeting was entirely coincidental,
but a still small voice kept whispering to him that there was fate in it.
He was so surprised that he could only nod. Denver at once appropriated a
chair and seated himself in his usual noiseless way.

When he rearranged the silver which the waiter placed before him, there
was not the faintest click of the metal. And Terry noted, too, a certain
nice justness in every one of Denver's motions. He was never fiddling
about with his hands; when they stirred, it was to do something, and when
the thing was done, the hands became motionless again.

His eyes did not rove; they remained fixed for appreciable periods
wherever they fell, as though Denver were finding something worth
remembering in the wall, or in a spot on the table. When his glance
touched on a face, it hung there in the same manner. After a moment one
would forget all the rest of his face, brutal, muscular, shapeless, and
see only the keen eyes.

Terry found it difficult to face the man. There was need to be excited