"I like catching sharks," said the Saint, with unblinking innocence.
"You ought to come out with us," said Mr. Kilgarry hospitably.
The room was large and uncomfortable, cluttered with that hideous hodgepodge of gilt and lacquer and brocade, assembled without regard to any harmony of style or period, which passes for the height of luxury in American hotel furnishing. In the centre of the room there was a card table already set up, adding one more discordant note to the cacophony of junk, but still looking as if it belonged there. There were bottles and a pail of ice on a pea-green and old-rose butterfly table of incredible awfulness.
Mr. Kilgarry brought up chairs, and Mr. Yoring patted Mercer on the shoulder.
"You fix a drink, Eddie," he said. "Let's all make ourselves at home."
He lowered himself into a place at the table, took off his pince-nez, breathed on them and began to polish them with his handkerchief.
Mercer's tense gaze caught the Saint's for an instant. Simon nodded imperceptibly and settled his own glasses more firmly on the bridge of his nose.
"How's the luck going to be tonight, Eddie?" chaffed Kilgarry, opening two new decks of cards and spilling them on the cloth.
"You'll be surprised," retorted the young man. "I'm going to give you two gasbags a beautiful beating tonight."
"Attaboy," chirped Yoring encouragingly.