"All right, Sam?" he called.
The driver grinned down at us through the hole.
"All right, sir," he answered. "They couldn't stand the pace a little bit. They're distanced."
The trap snapped down again, we turned into Sixth Avenue, and stopped in a moment before the Studio—gray and forbidding without, but a dream within. My companion led the way upstairs to a private room, where a table stood ready set for us. The oysters appeared before we were fairly seated.
"You see," he smiled, "I made bold to believe that you'd come with me, and so had the dinner already ordered."
I looked at him without replying. I was completely in the dark. Could this be the writer of the mysterious note? But what could his object be? Above all, why should he so expose himself? He smiled again, as he caught my glance.
"Of course you're puzzled," he said. "Well, I'll make a clean breast of the matter at once. I wanted to talk with you about this Holladay case, and I decided that a dinner at the Studio would be just the ticket."
I nodded. The soup was a thing to marvel at.
"You were right," I assented. "The idea was a stroke of genius."
"I knew you'd think so. You see, since this morning, I've been making rather a study of you. That coup of yours at the coroner's court this afternoon was admirable—one of the best things I ever saw."