THE group was breaking up. Some of the men started toward the billiard room; others toward the lobby.
Lamont Cranston remained in the lounge. He seated himself in a comfortable chair and turned to observe a man who was sitting near by. This individual had not been taking part in the discussion.
The man whom Cranston surveyed was a sober, quiet-faced chap in his thirties. He was dressed in evening clothes. He was smoking a panatella in a methodical manner, and seemed very much concerned with his own thoughts.
He, alone, seemed to reflect the usual atmosphere of the Cobalt Club. The only expression on his face was a look of glumness that seemed to be habitual. It disappeared suddenly when the man noticed that he was being observed. He cast a slow glance at Lamont Cranston, recognized the firm, chiseled face of the millionaire, and spoke words of greeting.
“Good evening, Mr. Cranston,” was all he said.
“Good evening, er— er—” Cranston seemed at loss.
“Mann,” was the reply. “Rutledge Mann.”
“Ah, yes!” exclaimed Cranston. “I remember, now. I’ve met you here several times before. Were you listening to the conversation of the worried plutocrats?”
“It hardly concerned me,” replied Mann, with a wan smile.
“Why not?”