"Give that chap your coat and apron," he ordered, when the attendant answered, "and when I ring next send him up. Pass the word to Padden and the others not to notice any little disturbance. I'll answer for results." "I'm going to get out," cried the man from St. Louis. "He mustn't see me." "He'll see you sure if you leave now. You'll have to pass him. Stick here. We'll have some fun." The white-faced man sank back into his chair, while Anthony directed sharply: "Now, gentlemen, be seated. Here, Locke, your back to the door--your face looks like a chalk-mine. There! Now don't be so nervous--we'll cure this fellow's ambition as a gin-slinger. I'll change names with you for a minute. Now, Ringold, go ahead with your story." Then, as the giant took up his tale again: "Listen to him, fellows; look pleasant, please. Remember you're not sitting up with a corpse. A little more ginger, Ringie. Good!" He pushed the button twice, and a moment Later the door opened quietly to admit a medium-sized man in white coat and apron. Had the young men been a little less exhilarated they might have suspected that Locke's story of having been dogged from St. Louis was a trifle exaggerated; for, instead of singling him out at first glance, the new-comer paused at a respectful distance inside the door and allowed his eyes to shift uncertainly from one to another as if in doubt as to which was his quarry. Anthony did not dream that it was his own resemblance to the Missourian that led to this confusion, but in fact, while he and Locke were totally unlike when closely compared, they were of a similar size and coloring, and the same general description would have fitted both. Having allowed the intruder a moment in which to take in the room, Kirk leaned back in his chair and nodded for him to approach. "Cigars!" he ordered. "Bring a box of Carolinas." "Yes, sir. Are you Mr. Locke, sir?" inquired the new waiter. "Yes," said Kirk. "Telephone message for you, Mr. Locke," the waiter muttered. "What's that?" Anthony queried, loud enough for the others to hear. "Somebody calling you by 'phone. They're holding the wire outside. I'll show you the booth." "Oh, will you?" Kirk Anthony's hands suddenly shot out and seized the masquerader by the throat. The man uttered a startled gasp, but simultaneously the iron grip of Marty Ringold fell upon his arms and doubled them behind him, while Kirk gibed: "You'll get me outside and into a telephone booth, eh? My dear sir, that is old stuff." The rest of the party were on their feet instantly, watching the struggle and crowding forward with angry exclamations. Ringold, with the man's two wrists locked securely in his own huge paw, was growling: "Smooth way to do up a fellow, I call it." "All the way from St. Louis for a telephone call, eh?" Anthony sank his thumbs into the stranger's throat, then, as the man's face grew black and his contortions diminished, added: "We're going to make a good waiter out of you."