The waiter removed his coat. In the obscure corner, he rubbed his hands over his face and surveyed the result in a small mirror that hung on the wall. From a locker, he produced another coat and vest.
He pocketed the paper with its duplicate inscription. He walked unobserved from the kitchen. When he reappeared, in the lobby, he was none other than George Clarendon, wealthy member of the Cobalt Club.
IT was nearly ten minutes later when Bob appeared in the lobby. He looked about him, as one unfamiliar with the place, and spied a telephone booth in a corner. He entered the booth and put in a call.
While he was there, Clarendon arose leisurely, passed by the booth, and descended the stairs toward the billiard room. He paused on the deserted steps and leaned close against the rail. To his keen ear came the low voice of the man at the telephone.
“Hello… I’m at the Cobalt Club… With Thaddeus Westcott. He’s leaving shortly. He expects to go home… You understand? He lives out on Long Island… His car is here in town… Goes over Queensboro Bridge… Yes, I’m staying in town… All right, see you later.”
Bob left the booth and returned to the grillroom. Soon he came into the lobby again, accompanied by Hiram Mallory and Thaddeus Westcott. The latter was speaking.
“I have wondered about it, gentlemen,” he said, “but I cannot understand its purpose. The information is undoubtedly important—”
Hiram Mallory tapped him significantly upon the arm. Westcott understood. There were other persons here in the lobby. He nodded and ended his conversation.
“Good evening,” he said, as he shook hands with his companions.
“A good trip South,” replied Mallory.