"I know you are," said the other soothingly.
"Darn the luck," growled Stuyvie, following a heroic effort to restore his physical equilibrium. "I wouldn't have had her see me here with this crowd for half the money in New York. She'll get a bad impression of me. Look at 'em! My Lord, they're all stewed. I say, you go over and tell that man with the big nose at the head of my table that I've been suddenly called away, and—"
"Take my advice, and sit tight."
Stuyvie's mind wandered. "Say, do you know who that rippin' creature is over there with the fat Irishman? She's a dream."
The sallow man did not deign to look. He bent a little closer to Mr. Smith-Parvis.
"Now, what is the next move, Mr. Smith-Parvis? I've located her right enough. Is this the end of the trail?"
"Sh!" cautioned Stuyvie, loudly. Then even more loudly: "Don't you know any better than to roar like that? There's a man sitting up there—"
"He can't understand a word of English. Wop. Just landed. That's the guy the papers have been—"
"I am not in the least interested in your conversation," said Stuyvie haughtily. "What were you saying?"
"Am I through? That's what I want to know."
"You have found out where she's stopping?"
"Yep. Stayin' with the white-haired old lady. Dressmaking establishment. The office will make a full report to you tomorrow."
"Wait a minute. Let me think."
