Jimmie Dale, with a well-simulated start, sat up—and, with another quite as well simulated, stared at the masked man. The other had laid down his book, and swung around in his chair to face the couch. Jimmie Dale stood up a little shakily.
“Look here!” he said awkwardly. “I—I don't quite understand. I remember that my taxi got into a smash-up, and I suppose I have to thank you for the assistance you must have rendered me; only, as I say”—he looked in a puzzled way around the room, and in an even more perplexed way at the mask on the other's face—“I must confess I am at a loss to understand quite the meaning of this.”
“Suppose that instead of trying to understand you simply accept things as you find them.” The voice was soft, but there was a finality in it that its blandness only served to make the more suggestive.
Jimmie Dale drew himself up, and bowed coldly.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I did not mean to intrude. I have only to thank you again, then, and bid you good-night.”
The lips beneath the mask parted slightly in a politely deprecating smile.
“There is no hurry,” said the man, a sudden sharpness creeping into his tones. “I am sorry that the rule I apply to you does not work both ways. For instance, I might be quite at a loss to account for your presence in that taxicab.”
Jimmie Dale's smile was equally polite, equally deprecating.
“I fail to see how it could be of the slightest possible interest to you,” he replied. “However, I have no objection to telling you. I hailed the taxi at the corner of Sixth Avenue and Waverly Place, told the chauffeur to drive me to the St. James Club, and—”
“The St. James Club,” broke in the other coldly, “is, I believe, north, not SOUTH of Waverly Place—and on Broadway not at all.”