By this time the others had given their orders to Max, and one of them turned to Jackson Frost.
“We’re trying to make up a four for cards; would you and Mr. Atherton care to join us?”
“Thanks, but I haven’t time,” said Frost. “I’m dining out to-night, and I’m just going up to my room to change.”
“And I’m only staying for a few minutes,” put in Atherton. “As a matter of fact, I only dropped in for a drink, and as soon as I’ve finished it, I’m off. By the way, did I pay you for this Scotch, Max?”
“No, sir,” said the waiter.
Atherton paid, and Max left the room.
The club bar was in the basement, but instead of going there to procure the drinks which had been ordered, Max glided to the end of the entrance hall, walked leisurely up one flight of stairs, and then, being out of sight from below, darted up two other flights.
It seemed a curious thing for a cardroom waiter to do. On the fourth floor of the building were quite a number of private rooms, which were reserved by members who wished to have a place where they could spend a night, or where they could change into evening dress—or out of it—without the trouble of going home. One of these rooms—it was number twenty-five—was rented by Jackson Frost.
Reaching this fourth floor, Max did another curious thing—an extremely curious thing for a cardroom waiter to do.
Approaching the door of Frost’s room, he drew a bunch of skeleton keys from his pocket, selected one of them, and opened the door. Having gained access to the room, he darted across to the window, opened it an inch or two from the bottom, then hastily retreated, locking the door behind him and hurrying back downstairs.