T. B., studying his menu, asked quietly, "Is it possible to see and hear what is going on in No. 3?"
"The private room?"
"Yes."
The waiter adjusted the table with a soft professional touch. "There is a small anteroom, and a ventilator, a table that might be pushed against the wall and a chair," said the waiter concisely. "If you remain here I will make sure."
He scribbled a mythical order on his little pad and disappeared.
He came back in five minutes with a small tureen of soup. As he emptied its contents into the plate before T. B. he said, "All right; the key is on the inside.—The door is numbered 11."
T. B. picked up the wine list.
"Cover me when I leave," he said.
He had finished his soup when the waiter brought him a note. He broke open the envelope and read the contents with an expression of annoyance.
"I shall be back in a few minutes," he said, rising; "reserve this table."