Foyle acknowledged the introduction.
"From the colonies, I suppose, Mr. Maxwell? I suppose Eden has told you he's just come over." Eden surveyed the detective with wide-open, innocent blue eyes in which there dwelt hurt reproach. "I hate to separate you, but I've got important business with him. Perhaps you'll meet another time."
"Yes, you'll excuse me now, old man," chimed in Eden blandly. "Call for me at the Palatial at eleven to-morrow, and we'll make a day of it."
Maxwell had no sooner accepted his dismissal than
Foyle led the other over to his table. Eden walked with the manner of one uncertain what was about to happen.
"It is all right, Mr. Foyle," he protested eagerly. "It is all right. I haven't touched him for a sou."
Foyle began on the soup placidly.
"You're a joker, Jimmy," he smiled. "Don't get uneasy. I'm not going to carry you inside. Only you'll have to leave the Palatial to-night, Jimmy—to-night, do you understand? And if Maxwell turns up with a complaint against you there'll be pretty bad trouble. You'll be put out of temptation for good and all. There's such a thing as preventive detention in this country now, you know."
The Garden of Eden looked pained.
"Truth, Mr. Foyle, I haven't done a thing," he declared earnestly. "I'm trying the straight game now."