“It has not the flare of the Waldorf,” he told himself, as he sat down to dinner, “and it’s not nearly so expensive. But it will do.”
He was still pondering over the menu when who should enter the café but Webster.
“Oh, I say, but this is luck,” exclaimed that young person, dumping himself into a chair at the opposite side of the table. “I got your notice of removal about an hour ago, while I was deep in the selecting of a menu for a tight old wax that I hoped to land for a good order. But right on top of your message came a ’phone call from him saying that he couldn’t keep the dinner appointment after all. So I dressed and hurried over here for a bite.”
“It couldn’t have happened better,” said Kenyon. “Because I want to discuss a few things with you, rather badly.”
He gave the man, who stood at his side, a carefully selected and rather elaborate list of dishes; then he turned to his friend once more.
“Last night,” said he, slowly, “I was a witness to what Captain Marryat once fascinatingly called ‘a most desperate and bloody murder.’”
“Heavens!” ejaculated Webster, staring at him. “Where?”
“In a Chinese den on the lower East Side.”
“After you left me?”
“Of course.”