"I say don't shave me too close," said Jack.
The shave over, Jack retired to his apartment and found in suite number forty-two everything that the heart of man could desire, and throughout the great caravansary the name of Horace Vanderpoel was held in high honor. To be sure they had never heard of him before, but the associate of these brilliant dignitaries of the financial world must indeed be somebody, even in New York! Here he sat, awaiting developments, his amusement as well as his interest in the adventure increasing momentarily. An hour passed and then a card was brought to his door bearing the mystic words:
COLONEL A. N. GORA
The Catskill Club
"Ask Colonel Gora to come right up," said Jack, with difficulty repressing the guffaw that struggled within him for expression, recognizing the name at once. Five minutes later puss walked in, the perfect picture of a military dandy, largely due no doubt to the cut of his whiskers.
"Well," he said, removing his gloves, and out of sheer force of habit proceeding to wash his face with his right paw, "you seem to be pretty comfortably located."
"In the lap of luxury," grinned Jack.
Puss's face grew solemn.
"For a cat, my dear Jack, or, rather, Horace," he said, "the lap of luxury would be a saucer of milk."
"You shall have a pitcherful, Bill," cried Jack, rushing to the 'phone.