Fourteen was the number of the Warburton's apartment, and Mr. Preserved Higgins pressed his ear against the keyhole.
Three voices drifted through—Mr. Warburton's measured, rather pompous accents, a woman's, presumably his daughter's, and Hector Wade's. Whereupon the millionaire, without more ado, opened the door, which was unlocked, with a hearty “Wot-ho! O'Connor, old socks!” looked for the mythical O'Connor, found him not at all, mumbled lying words about having come to the wrong room, waved an apologetic hand, and made as if to retrace his steps.
It was at this moment, evidently for the first time, he seemed to become aware of the younger man's identity, and, having heard from the sharp-eared gentle man with the sandy hair that Hector, back in the alley near St. Katherine, had chosen Charles Smith as a nom de guerre, it was natural that Mr. Preserved Higgins should come out with a part hearty, part surprised “'Ullo, Wade! An' wot are you doin' 'ere, 'obnobbin' with the Hemperor of Dollars and Cents and 'er Royal 'Ighness the Crown Princess?”
He had guessed exactly right.
For, “Wade?” exclaimed the girl. “Why, I thought you said your name was Smith?”
Hector turned a deep red. He stammered something about it being rather hard to explain, and Mr. Preserved Higgins decided that now was the psychological, also the logical, moment to play trumps.
Quite dignifiedly, he turned to the American who, during the preceding, had maintained a stony silence,
