“Matt King and Joe McGlory—two nymes.”
“’E’s hexpecting you. This w’y, please.”
The boys were ushered through a great apartment with a beamed ceiling and a fireplace that covered half of one end of the room, up a flight of broad stairs, and along a wide hall. Here the servant paused by a door and knocked. A mumble of voices, coming from the other side of the door, ceased abruptly.
“What’s wanted?” demanded some one.
“Mr. McGlory hand friend, sir.”
“Send ’em in.”
The servant pushed open the door, drew to one side, and bowed the boys out of the hall. Then the unexpected happened for the second time.
There were two men in the room, and the atmosphere was thick with tobacco smoke and a reek of liquor. A box of cigars was on a table; also a decanter and two glasses, a bowl of cracked ice, and a bottle of “fizz” water.
A man was seated in a comfortable chair, rocking and smoking. This man was Hannibal J. Levitt, owner of the unmanageable runabout.
The other man was tall and gaunt. He wore a black frock coat and gray trousers, a flowing tie, and a big diamond in the front of his pleated white shirt. His hair was a trifle long and a trifle thin on the crown. A mustache spread widely from his upper lip; and a wisp of pointed beard decorated his chin.