"A word in private," said the other.
Stuyvesant got up and followed him to a vacant table in the rear.
"She is here," said the stranger. "Here in this restaurant. Not more than fifty feet from where we're sitting."
The listener blinked. His brain was foggy.
"What's that?" he mumbled, thickly.
"The girl you're lookin' for," said the man.
Stuyvesant sat up abruptly. His brain seemed to clear.
"You mean—Miss Emsdale?" he demanded, rather distinctly.
The little man in the red coat, sitting just above them on the edge of the platform, where he was resting after a particularly long and arduous number, pricked up his ears. He, too, had seen the radiant, friendly face of the English girl at the far end of the room, and had favoured her with more than one smile of appreciation.
"Yes, Stand up and take a look. Keep back of this palm, so's she won't lamp you. 'Way over there with the white-haired old lady. Am I right? She's the one, ain't she?"
Smith-Parvis became visibly excited. "Yes,—there's not the slightest doubt. How—how long has she been here? Why the devil didn't you tell me sooner?"
"Don't get excited. Better not let her see you in this condition. She looks like a nice, refined girl. She—"
"What do you mean 'condition'? I'm all right," retorted the young man, bellicose at once.
