“Oh, he’s no slouch. Now I’m going to bed. But before I go, take this.” He drew from his pocket a tiny golden panther strung on a black cord. “Wear it where you can get at it, but where no one else would see it or could pick your pocket for it. And if any one shows you one like it, trust him. It’s the symbol for this particular job. I won’t see you in the morning at all. But to-morrow night suppose you meet me upstairs in a little chop-suey joint in Broadway at 39th Street. The tables are screened off and no one will notice us. We can talk there in peace and quiet and make some more definite plans for keeping in touch with each other. In the meantime try to get started on the social stuff. Dig up all your old friends and start things going. Maybe that Mrs. Furneau might be a good one to start on. After all you don’t know much about her.” Moore got up. “Well, meet me at that chop-suey joint, remember. Broadway at 39th at eight, and we’ll have another powwow. In the meantime, good luck!” He gave me a quick handshake, rapped on the window of the cab and as the vehicle slowed up, flung open the door and slipped out. A moment later he had disappeared among the shifting pedestrians on the Avenue. When I got back I found that Larry was disposed to consider his feelings hurt. The affliction took the form of an attitude of exaggerated servitude which was irritating in the extreme. He wanted as much disciplining as a puppy. However, something occurred almost at once that brought him out of it with a bump. I asked him whether anything had happened in my absence. “No, sir,” he answered in the true butler manner. “Nothing of any moment, sir.” His English was excellent when he wanted to make it so. “What do you mean—nothing of any moment?” I demanded curiously. “Why, nothing, sir, nothing happened at all.” He bowed deferentially. “Have you breakfasted, sir?” I felt like kicking him. “Drop it, Larry,” I told him. “I don’t know what’s biting you and I haven’t the time to bother to find out. But if you take my advice, you’ll drop that butler business, you ignoramus. Now get out of it.” Larry departed and I went to my desk to look up the address of some of my one-time friends and to drop a line to Mrs. Furneau. A moment later I rang for Larry. “How many times have I told you to leave my desk alone?” I demanded. Larry scratched his head. “Sure, times and thin times,” he answered. “But faith, I haven’t so much as laid a finger on it.” “Don’t talk nonsense. I left these papers under that folded map of New York. Now the papers are all mixed up and the paper-weight is on them. I found the map over here—and, by golly, you’ve even unfolded it and folded it up again the wrong way. What do you mean by it?” Larry’s butler manner dropped from him now like a garment. “Faith, thin, sor, I haven’t so much as touched the desk, that I haven’t!” he declared earnestly. “Maybe you forgot, like, the way you left things.”