"Why not?" says he. "Come on. I may need fresh inspiration."
"Whatever I gives you'll be fresh, all right," says I; "but if I was you, and was goin' to butt into any Fifth-ave. hotel along about dinner-time, I'd wear the regalia. Yours ain't in on a ticket, is it?"
It wa'n't. Mallory had to go clear to the bottom of the trunk after it; but when he'd shook out the wrinkles and got himself inside the view was worth while. After he's blown up his op'ra hat and got out his stick you couldn't tell him from a three times winner.
"Chee!" says I. "You've got Silent Smith tied to a post. If you acts like you look, you don't need me."
He wouldn't have it that way, though. I'd got to go along and be ready to give him any points I thought of. We goes in a cab, too, in over the rubber mats to the carriage door, just like we'd come to hire the royal suite.
"The Baron Kazedky," says Mallory, shovin' his card across at the near plute behind the desk.
Then the cold wave begun comin' our way. Mister Baron was out. Nobody knew where he'd gone. He hadn't left any word. And he didn't receive callers after four P.M., anyway. Mallory was gettin' his breath after stoppin' them body blows, when I pushes in.
"Say, Sir Wally," says I, leanin' over towards the clerk and speakin' confidential, "lemme give you somethin' from the inside. If Kazedky misses seein' Mr. Mallory to-night, you'll be called up to-morrow to hear some Russian language that'll take all the crimp out of that Robert Mantell bang of yours. Now ring up one of them bench-warmers and show us the Baron!"
But, say, you might's well try bluffin' your way through the fire lines on a brass trunk check, "You'll find the manager's office two doors to the left, gentlemen," says he.
"Much obliged for nothin'," says I.