"Yes. Stand up and take a look. Keep back of this palm, so's she won't lamp you. 'Way over there with the white-haired old lady. Am I right? She's the one, ain't she?"
Smith-Parvis became visibly excited. "Yes,—there's not the slightest doubt. How—how long has she been here? Why the devil didn't you tell me sooner?"
"Don't get excited. Better not let her see you in this condition. She looks like a nice, refined girl. She—"
"What do you mean 'condition'? I'm all right," retorted the young man, bellicose at once.
"I know you are," said the other soothingly.
"Darn the luck," growled Stuyvie, following a heroic effort to restore his physical equilibrium. "I wouldn't have had her see me here with this crowd for half the money in New York. She'll get a bad impression of me. Look at 'em! My Lord, they're all stewed. I say, you go over and tell that man with the big nose at the head of my table that I've been suddenly called away, and—"
"Take my advice, and sit tight."
Stuyvie's mind wandered. "Say, do you know who that rippin' creature is over there with the fat Irishman? She's a dream."
The sallow man did not deign to look. He bent a little closer to Mr. Smith-Parvis.
"Now, what is the next move, Mr. Smith-Parvis? I've located her right enough. Is this the end of the trail?"