"Where is Jacques, the man who usually waits on me?" demanded Wickersham, half angrily.
"Jacques est souffrant. Il est très malade."
Wickersham grunted. "Well, take this," he said, "and remember that if you serve me properly there will be a good deal more to follow."
The waiter thanked him profusely.
"Now, get down and be on the lookout, and when a lady comes and asks for 21, show her up immediately. If she asks who is here, tell her two gentlemen and a lady. You understand?"
The waiter bowed his assent and retired. Wickersham came in and closed the door behind him.
He had just thrown his coat on a chair, laid his hat on the mantelpiece, and was twirling his moustache at the mirror above it, when he caught sight in the mirror of Keith. Keith had stepped out behind him from the recess, and was standing by the table, quietly looking at him. He gave an exclamation and turned quickly.
"Hah! What is this? You here! What are you doing here? There is some mistake." He glanced at the door.
"No, there is no mistake," said Keith, advancing; "I am waiting for you."
"For me! Waiting for me?" he demanded, mystified.