None of the three had been in the crowd with Higgins, so far as Frank could remember their faces.
They did not look up when Frank entered, for they supposed, as Mellor himself did, that the bartender was coming in to get an order.
"Fill 'em up!" said Mellor, stupidly, rapping his glass upon the table. "Letsh have 'nother round."
His eyes were bleary, and although he glanced at Frank he failed to recognize him. The latter stood still for a second or two to control his indignation; before he spoke the bartender entered with a bottle of champagne, the cork of which was already drawn.
"I suppose it's the same, gents?" he said, in a businesslike tone.
"Shame old Shampaggeny water," returned Mellor, holding his glass upside down.
One of the men at the table reached over and righted Mellor's glass, which the waiter promptly proceeded to fill.
"Here'sh ter good ol' Yale!" stammered Mellor, bringing the glass to his lips with the aid of the man who had helped him to hold it steady.
Frank could remain quiet no longer. He reached over the table, and with a sweep of his arm knocked the glass from Mellor's hand and sent it flying against the wall, where it broke in a hundred pieces.