"What sort of a place is this, anyhow, Guest?" I asked him, looking round me with some curiosity. We were a long way from Fifth Avenue, and what I had always understood to be the centre of New York; but the bar in which we sat was quite equal to anything I had seen at the Waldorf-Astoria. The walls were panelled with dark oak, and hung with oil paintings. The bar itself was of polished walnut wood. All the appurtenances of the place, from the white linen clothes of the two servitors to the glass and silver upon the polished counter, were spotless and immaculate. In addition to the inevitable high stools, there were several little compartments screened off, after the fashion of the old-fashioned English coffee-room of the seventeenth century, and furnished with easy-chairs and lounges of the most luxurious description. In one of these we were now sitting.
"Better not ask me that," Guest answered dryly. "There are some places in
New York of strange reputation, and this is one of them. Now go ahead!"
I told him everything. He was a good listener. He asked no questions, he understood everything. When I had finished, he smoked a cigarette through before he said a word. Then he stood up and gave me my hat.
"Come," he said, "we have a busy morning before us, and we must catch the
German steamer for Hamburg this afternoon."
"Back to Europe?" I asked, as we left the place.
"Yes!"
"But won't that rather give us away?" I asked. "I came to go out West, you know."
"We must try and arrange that," Guest answered. "I'll explain as we go along."
We climbed an iron staircase, which came down to the pavement within a few yards of the bar, and took the elevated railway up town. We descended at 47th Street and, after a short walk, entered a tall building, from the hall of which several lifts were running. We took one of them and stopped at the eleventh floor. Exactly opposite to us was a door, on the frosted glass of which was painted in black letters: