"Not a hundredth part of them," Kendricks answered. "It was a terrible job to get these tickets and I wouldn't like to guarantee now that we have them that we get there. Remember, if any questions are asked, you're an American, the editor or envoy of The Coming Age."
"The dickens I am!" Julien exclaimed. "Where am I published?"
"In New York; you're a new issue."
Julien ate sausages and bread and butter steadily for several minutes.
"To me," he announced, "there is something more satisfying about a meal of this description than that two-franc dinner where you stole my chicken."
"You have Teutonic instincts, without a doubt," Kendricks declared, "but after all, why not a light dinner and an appetite for supper? Better for the digestion, better for the pocket, better for passing the time. What are you staring at?"
Julien was looking across the room with fixed eyes.
"I was watching a man who has been sitting at a small table over there," he remarked. "He has just gone out through that inner door. For a moment I could have sworn that it was Carl Freudenberg."
Kendricks shook his head.
"Mr. Carl Freudenberg takes many risks, but I do not think he would care to show himself here."