Looking over this mixture of all sorts, in which acquaintance was so easy to make, Clifford thought of the strange dramas that had their beginnings in the Grand Alcazar and establishments of its kind. Thus much had the dancing craze, though now receded from its earliest frenzy, and the practice of dining and eating midnight suppers in the showy restaurants, achieved: it had brought all sorts of persons, so long as they were well dressed, under the same roof and had set them down at the same or adjoining tables. Hardly since time began had that important requisite of great drama been so nearly perfect as in these restaurants--for people of different ideas and interests and moral standards to meet naturally upon a common ground.... A little man, swart of face, his mustache tightly waxed, and in the smartest evening dress that convention permits the male, paused and spoke to Clifford--a gentleman whom most of the patrons of the place knew, if they knew him at all, as Monsieur Le Bain. Though the master of this ornate pleasure palace, he spoke obsequiously. Clifford liked to see the great little man squirm. “Police trouble you much here?” he asked. “No, Bob,--I never see a policeman here, except when a captain or an inspector comes in to eat,” the great restaurateur said nervously. “Not like the old days downtown--with their raids--eh, Joe?” “Nothing of that sort--ever!” And with a quick look around that showed he feared some one might have overheard these sentences and guessed what lay behind them, he said something about being needed on his ballroom floor and hurried away. Clifford watched the famous restaurateur, again smiling grimly. If these people here--the respectable ones at least--knew the record of Joe Gordon (which again was not the name given him at birth), knew from what places and occupations he had made his way to his eminence of foremost host and impresario of prandial entertainment--what a panic there would be! (Or would there be a panic?) Life was certainly strange!--with its emergencies, its juxtapositions, its crossing of threads--strange at least to him who was always seeing behind the scenes. Yes, life was certainly strange!... Clifford’s meditations were interrupted by a hearty, “Hello, Bob,” and by a large hand gripping one of his. “Hello, Uncle George. I’d begun to think--”