"Shut up," said Stuyvie, who had, after a moment's concentration, recognized the man. "What do you want?"
"A word in private," said the other.
Stuyvesant got up and followed him to a vacant table in the rear.
"She is here," said the stranger. "Here in this restaurant. Not more than fifty feet from where we're sitting."
The listener blinked. His brain was foggy.
"What's that?" he mumbled, thickly.
"The girl you're lookin' for," said the man.
Stuyvesant sat up abruptly. His brain seemed to clear.
"You mean—Miss Emsdale?" he demanded, rather distinctly.
The little man in the red coat, sitting just above them on the edge of the platform, where he was resting after a particularly long and arduous number, pricked up his ears. He, too, had seen the radiant, friendly face of the English girl at the far end of the room, and had favoured her with more than one smile of appreciation.