"No," ground out Langhorne. "Wait—he shall not. By the way, aren't those orchids gorgeous?"
The encore had ceased and over the vocaphone we could hear gaily chatting couples wandering into the conservatory. The two conspirators rose and parted silently, without exciting suspicion.
For several minutes we listened to snatches of the usual vapid chatter that dancing seems to induce. Then the orchestra blared forth with another of the seductive popular pieces.
Kennedy and I looked at each other, amazed. From the underworld up to the smart set, the trail of graft was the same, debauching and blunting all that it touched. Here we saw the making of a full-fledged scandal in one of the highest circles.
We had scarcely recovered from our surprise at the startling disclosures of the vocaphone, when we heard two voices again above the music, two men this time.
"What—you here?" inquired a voice which we recognized immediately as that of Langhorne.
"Yes," replied the other voice, evidently of a young man. "I came in with the swells to keep my eye peeled on what was going on."
The voice itself was unfamiliar, yet it had a tough accent which denoted infallibly the section of the city where it was acquired. It was one of the gangsters.
"What's up, Ike?" demanded Langhorne suspiciously.
Craig looked at me significantly. It was Ike the Dropper!