“And why, pray?” demanded the society man.
The waiter came a step or two nearer, so that the chauffeur could not hear.
“I was at Meadowview at three o’clock this morning,” he murmured.
Alfred Atherton went suddenly white, but he recovered himself almost instantly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, “but as you seem to think you do, I suppose I can give you five minutes. Come along.”
Without another word he led the way into the building, and entered the waiting elevator. They were shot up a few floors, and Max Berne was ushered into a luxuriously furnished room overlooking the wide avenue.
“Will you sit down?” Atherton asked, in tones of icy politeness.
He pointed to a chair in the middle of the room, but his visitor smilingly shook his head and seated himself at one of the windows.
“This will suit me better, I think,” the waiter answered blandly. “It will be easier for me to attract the attention of the people in the street—if I need to. Also,” he added, as he drew a loaded revolver from his pocket. “I shall feel more at home if I hold this in my hand while I talk.”
Atherton shrugged his shoulders and seated himself in the chair which he had offered to the waiter.