"I thought so," smiled Ashton-Kirk. "My old friend Dan O'Connor has mentioned you so often that I felt sure that I recognized the manner."
The dignity vanished from Mr. Tobin's face, and the stiffness of demeanor fell from him instantly.
"Do you know Dan?" asked he, eagerly. "Ah, there is the lad for you. A credit to his country and to his name. Faith, he is the best judge of whiskey in the city, and has a heart as large and as mellow as a barrel of it."
"If it would not be putting you about in any way, we'd like a few moments in private with you."
At once Mr. Tobin touched a button. A young man presented himself, and to him the conducting of the house was transferred for the time being. Then the two friends were led into a small sitting-room, where chairs were placed for them, and Mr. Tobin seated himself opposite them with some expectation.
"Since I became manager here," explained he, "I seldom hear of any of the old lads. Ye see, it's so far from the center of the city," regretfully, "they seldom get along this way, so they do."
"Yes, I suppose they cling to their old haunts," said Ashton-Kirk. "Dan sticks to his school of boxing these days, pretty closely. I often drop in for a round or two with him. He's as clever as ever, but he's slowing up."
Tobin shook his white head sadly.
"Tut, tut, tut," said he. "And do you tell me that! Faith, he's a young man yet—not much over sixty—and what call have he to be takin' on the ways and manners of age? Even as late as the last year of the Coffin Club he was as swift as the light."
"He frequently spoke of that club to me," observed the other. "A queer place, I understand."