"I shall require no service, waiter. Here's a bill; keep the change for your tip."
"Thank you, sir."
The lock and the latch were released simultaneously. So adroitly was this accomplished that the waiter never suspected that he had been locked in or that he was immediately going to be locked out.
Mathison crossed over to the table, peeled a banana, lopped off a bit, and jabbed the fork into it. This he took to the parrakeet. Malachi sidled along the pole solemnly and reached down a coral-red claw.
On going back to the table Mathison felt top-hole in spirit. The telegram was off. If anything happened they would know where to find him. After he had finished his dinner he would find a hiding-place for that manila envelope.
Suddenly he became seized by an ironic whimsy, an impulse which in normal times he would have analyzed as idiotic. Nevertheless, he proceeded to materialize it. He searched in his coat-pocket for the picture of the actress, sliced off the non-essentials, and propped it against the water carafe. With his hand on his heart he bowed.
"Paper lady, I am at once gratified and deeply chagrined to offer you a repast so poor. I had planned a club steak; I've been planning it for six long years, and patriotism compels me to eat chicken—which I abominate! You are disappointed? I'm sorry. You won't look at me? Very well. That's not your fault; it's the fault of the fool photographer, the way he posed you. Crazy? Well, perhaps. But, Lord's truth, I wish I did know somebody like you. I'm the lonesomest duffer in all this Godforsaken world!"
So, while he munched his chicken and Malachi his banana, the clerk at the desk was having his worries.
"A queer bunch got off that stalled train," he said to the manager.
"What's the trouble?"