The stranger shook him off unceremoniously.
“Your mistake, I’m afraid———” he mumbled.
“I beg your pardon.” Storm stepped aside. “Sorry to have accosted you, sir. I thought that you were—yes, by Jove! You are Jack Horton! Don’t you know me, old man?”
The stranger hesitated and then with a hearty ring in his voice which he checked instantly as he glanced cautiously about him.
“You’ve got me!” he exclaimed with subdued joviality. “I’m Jack, all right, and of course I know you, Norman, you old scout! I meant to pass you up, though; fact is, I’ve got no business to stop in town now. For the love of Pete, if you’ve got nothing to do, take me somewhere where we can get a bite and have a good old chin without a lot of folks giving us the once-over!”
Storm was mystified. This pal of his freshman year at college whom Providence had thrust in his path this night of all nights when he needed human companionship seemed to be in some strange predicament, but he did not stop to question. He was only too glad of the promised relief from solitude.
“Come along! I’ve got just the place. Lord, but it’s good to see you! We’ll go straight up to my own rooms. My man will have gone, but I can rustle up some grub and anything else you feel like having.”
He gestured toward the line of waiting taxicabs, but Horton drew back.
“Where are you living?” he asked, with a trace of nervousness.
“Riverside Drive,” Storm replied impatiently. “Come on, old man, your umbrella’s leaking.”