"Are you going to let him—er—know?"
"Hardly," said Anthony. "Although—I don't know. Bob's level-headed and resourceful and reliable. Do you suppose it would be possible to—ask his aid?"
"Think of the girl!" said Johnson Boller. "Think what——"
He stopped, for Mr. Robert Vining was with them—a tall, broad-shouldered, person of a year or so past thirty, bright and steady of eye, and with the flush of health upon his carefully shaven cheek. He entered like the muscular paragon he was, lithely and easily as a tiger; and it seemed to Anthony that, if he did nothing else, fifteen minutes of his conversation might serve to restore normal thought.
Robert Vining was all of the pleasant every day that had been before their visit to the fight, and the very sight of him was stimulating.
So he clasped Vining's hand and said heartily:
"Good morning, Bob! You've breakfasted?"
"Long since," grinned young Mr. Vining. "I—who uses perfume around here?"
"No one," Anthony said, paling slightly. "Possibly——"
Vining's eyes twinkled.