“They can’t come too rich for us,” one of his friends chuckled. “Pass me the wine, George.”
“This is a great little opportunity for rehearsing,” Weiller reminded them. “I’ve got to sign this bird up to-night. If I do we’ll have another little dinner on Saturday with a souvenir beside each plate.”
Directly Trent reached the hotel lobby he slipped the waiter a five dollar bill. “If they get impatient,” he cautioned the man, “say I’m still busy on the long distance and must not be interrupted.”
Five minutes later he opened the door of Norah’s flat and turned on the light. There, upon a chair, was the bag on which he had built so many hopes. His long sensitive fingers felt each of the pendants. Then with the small blade of a pocket knife he cut a few stitches and drew out the Takowaja emerald. For a full minute he gazed at its green glittering glory. Then from a waistcoat pocket he took the brilliant which had been purchased with the Benares lamp. They were much of a size and he placed the glass where the jewel had been and with a needle of black silk already prepared sewed up the cut stitches. The whole time occupied from entering the apartment to leaving it was not five minutes. He was back with his guests within a quarter of an hour.
“You must have had good news,” Norah exclaimed when he took his seat. His face which had been expressionless before was now lighted up. He was a new man, vivacious, witty and bubbling over with fun.
“I had very good news,” he smiled, “I put through a deal which means a whole lot to me. Let’s have some more wine to celebrate.”
The dinner was taking place in a private room and he had insisted that the service be of the best. Now he was free from the tension that inevitably preceded one of his adventures he could enjoy himself. For the first time he looked at the omnibus by the door behind him. It was not the youthful fledgling waiter he expected to see but a big, dark man with a black moustache and imperial. Norah observed his glance.
“George offered to star him as the mysterious count but the poor wop don’t speak English.”
“I’ll bet he left spaghetti land because he done a murder,” George commented, “a nasty looking rummy I call him.”
“I’ll swear he wasn’t here when I went to the ’phone,” said Trent. “I should have noticed him.”