"Very good luncheon to-day, sirs," he declared in German. "Hans, hors d'oeuvres to the gentlemen."
We seated ourselves, arranged our napkins as Teutons, and ordered beer.
Then Guest assumed a mysterious manner.
"Business good, eh?" he inquired.
"Always good," the head-waiter declared. "We have our regular customers.
Always they come!"
Guest nodded two or three times.
"Heard anything about your new proprietor?" he asked.
"Not yet," the man answered. "The nephew of Mr. Muller, who died, lives in Switzerland. A friend of mine has gone over to see him. He will buy the good-will—all the place. It will go on as before."
Guest smiled meaningly at me, a smile which was meant to puzzle the waiter.
"But," he said, "supposing some one should step in before your friend? Supposing Mr. Muller's nephew should have put this place into the hands of an agent in London, and he should have sold it to some one else! Eh?"
For the first time, the man showed signs of genuine uneasiness. His smile suddenly disappeared. He looked at us anxiously.