The man addressed, a huge individual with a tremendous expanse of white shirt front, betrayed not the slightest sign of surprise or confusion. With all the profound affability of a far-Westerner, he made the newcomer welcome. If his steel-grey eyes bored inquiringly into Zimmerlein's for the briefest instant, no one else at the table was aware of the fact. Nor did any one observe the warning that shot back from the narrowing eyes of the belated guest.
A waiter produced a chair for Zimmerlein, and placed it between two of the ladies, who, with evident eagerness, made room for him. His smile deepened as he shook his head, affecting dismay.
“Not yet, but soon,” he pleaded. “I ran across an old friend of yours out in the lobby, Prince. Stillwell. I told him you'd be happy to have him join you, but as he's just off the train, he says he's filthy.”
“Where is he?” cried Prince, starting up. “I wouldn't miss seeing him for anything in the world. An old pal of mine in Japan,” he explained to his guests.
“If you will excuse us both, we 'll—” began Zimmerlein apologetically.
“Come along,” interrupted Prince, grabbing the other's arm. “Good old Still! We 'll bring him back with us if we have to drag him in. You 'll love him,” he added boisterously.
The two men hurried from the café. They did not speak until they reached a deserted corner of the hotel lobby.
