Claude did not know just what to do with the man, but as he held the door open the fellow entered and faced him in the hall.
“Come this way if you have business with me,” said the city sport, and he escorted his caller to the room he had just left.
The man took a chair and laid his hat on his knees.
“To whom am I indebted for this call?” asked Claude.
“Call me Hugh Larkins,” answered the stranger, in a squeakish voice that made a sound almost like a file.
“I don’t know you, Mr. Larkins.”
“Perhaps not. You don’t remember me. You have forgotten all about the old place on the Bowery that flourished five or six years ago. You don’t recall the barkeeper and the sometime pianist?”
A smile flitted across Claude’s face.
“Are you that person?” he asked.
“I’m Hugh Larkins. Sometimes they call me ‘Rosy’ Larkins, you remember.”