Mr. Sabin made his toilet with something of the same deliberation which characterised all his movements. Then he descended into the hall, bought a newspaper, and from a convenient easy-chair kept a close observation upon every one who passed to and fro for about an hour. Later on he ordered a carriage, and made several calls down town.
At a few minutes past twelve he entered the bar of the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and ordering a drink sat down at one of the small tables. The room was full, but Mr. Sabin’s attention was directed solely to one group of men who stood a short distance away before the counter drinking champagne. The central person of the group was a big man, with an unusually large neck, a fat pale face, a brown moustache tinged with grey, and a voice and laugh like a fog-horn. It was he apparently who was paying for the champagne, and he was clearly on intimate terms with all the party. Mr. Sabin watched for his opportunity, and then rising from his seat touched him on the shoulder.
“Mr. Skinner, I believe?” he said quietly.
The big man looked down upon Mr. Sabin with the sullen offensiveness of the professional bully.
“You’ve hit it first time,” he admitted. “Who are you, anyway?”
Mr. Sabin produced a card.
“I called this morning,” he said, “upon the gentleman whose name you will see there. He directed me to you, and told me to come here.”
The man tore the card into small pieces.
“So long, boys,” he said, addressing his late companions. “See you to-night.”
They accepted his departure in silence, and one and all favoured Mr. Sabin with a stare of blatant curiosity.
“I should be glad to speak with you,” Mr. Sabin said, “in a place where we are likely to be neither disturbed nor overheard.”
“You come right across to my office,” was the prompt reply. “I guess we can fix it up there.”
Mr. Sabin motioned
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