Leading the way, Clifford began a careful search of the gayer restaurants of Broadway. He picked up Lieutenant Jimmie Kelly. The search was rapid, for it had not to go beyond the entrances; Clifford knew the door-men and managers of every resort, and Jack Morton was a well-known figure to all. To them Clifford put the same question--“Young Mr. Morton in here?”--and all answered honestly, having a very substantial fear of Clifford and Jimmie Kelly, and an earnest desire to retain their licenses. At length, toward one o’clock, they came to Le Minuit; and of the proprietor, Monsieur Le Bain, Clifford asked the usual question. Monsieur Le Bain replied that Jack was there, and led the way through the din of his “authentic Hawaiian orchestra” and the hilarity of his hundreds of pleasure-fevered guests, down a little corridor off his “imperial ballroom.” He started to open the door at the end of this little hallway,--the door to his most exclusive private room,--but Clifford checked his hand. “Needn’t bother, Le Bain,--you can go on back,” said Clifford. “And, Jimmie,”--to the little lieutenant, as Le Bain went gliding away,--“I wish you’d hang around, where you won’t be noticed much, so you’ll be handy if needed.” “All right, Bob,” returned Lieutenant Jimmie. Clifford opened the door and pressed the elder Morton ahead of him into a dining-room of gray-and-gold. What he saw was almost the same as he had seen in Le Minuit many weeks before: here were Nina Cordova, Nan Burdette, Hilton, and Jack--the only difference being that Jack, then in a stupor, was now joyously maudlin. “Why, h’lo, dad,” he said, swaying up, a handsome, flushed, boyish figure. “Welcome home! Pull up chair, have li’l’ ole drink, ’n’ meet m’ frien’s. ’N’ there’s Clifford--good ole scout Clifford--meet m’ frien’s. Everybody have ’nother li’l’ ole drink.” The other three had risen. “I’ll take it as a favor if you’ll all say good-night,” Mr. Morton said shortly. “I want to speak to my son.” “So do we,” returned Nina Cordova in her most pertly charming manner, which she figured as irresistible. “Jack invited us to his little party, and we’re not going to insult the dear boy by walking out on him.” “Get out--all of you!” Mr. Morton’s jaws snapped together. “See here, we don’t stand for that line of talk, and we’re not going,” bristled Hilton. Clifford caught Hilton by the wrist, and gave the arm a twist that made the man drop sidewise to one knee and groan. “You are all going, and, Hilton, you go first,”--and he thrust him through the door. He turned to Nan Burdette, and the star of the long-faded “Orange Blossoms.” “If you two want to avoid trouble,” he said shortly, “you’ll follow Mr. Hilton right out.” They glowered at Clifford, but started to obey. “See here,” hiccoughed young Morton, “’f my frien’s go, I go too,”--and he swayed toward the door.