“Oh, the many times I’ve heard your theory debated in this place! The walls fairly ached with listening to the discussions.”
“Well, I’m sorry I didn’t know the chap,” interrupted Chandler. “Let’s drink to his memory!”
He struck the bell as he spoke. As the waiter filled the orders, I noticed one of the older members on the stairs bending close to the bulletin board and peering through his glasses at the notice of John Delafield’s death.
Chandler touched me on the shoulder.
“To the memory of a gentleman—Jack Delafield!” he cried. We rose to the toast.
The old man on the stairs turned quickly and saw the lifted glasses. His face was a study.
“Hush!” I whispered, “that’s Hawkins.”