"Indeed? Is it possible to obtain alcoholic refreshment in this restaurant?"
"You can always get it if they know you."
"But surely it is against the law?"
"Ha, ha!" laughed George. He liked this pleasant, whimsical fellow. "Ha, ha! Deuced good!"
He looked at him with that genial bonhomie with which one looks at a stranger in whom one has discovered a sly sense of humour. And, looking, he suddenly congealed.
Stranger?
"Great Scott!" ejaculated George.
"Sir?"
"Nothing, nothing."
Memory, though loitering by the way, had reached its goal at last. This man was no stranger. George recollected now where he had seen him before—on the roof of the Sheridan, when the other, clad in policeman's uniform, had warned him of the deplorable past of Frederick Mullett. The man was a cop, and under his very eyes, red rims and all, he had just ordered a high-ball.