At half past seven Platt and Miss Asher sat at a table in a Broadway restaurant. She was dressed in a plain, filmy black. Platt didn't know that it was all a part of her day's work.
With the unobtrusive aid of a good waiter he managed to order a respectable dinner, minus the usual Broadway preliminaries.
Miss Asher flashed upon him a dazzling smile.
«Mayn't I have something to drink?» she asked.
«Why, certainly,» said Platt. «Anything you want.»
«A dry Martini,» she said to the waiter.
When it was brought and set before her Platt reached over and took it away.
«What is this?» he asked.
«A cocktail, of course.»
«I thought it was some kind of tea you ordered. This is liquor. You can't drink this. What is your first name?»