"The tired brain," he said, "needs to recuperate. To feed on such a night as this in some low-down hostelry on the level of the street, with German waiters breathing heavily down the back of one's neck and two fiddles and a piano hitting up ragtime about three feet from one's tympanum, would be false economy. Here, fanned by cool breezes and surrounded by passably fair women and brave men, one may do a certain amount of tissue-restoring. Moreover, there is little danger up here of being slugged by our moth-eaten acquaintance of this afternoon. We shall probably find him waiting for us at the main entrance with a black-jack, but till then--" He turned with gentle grace to his soup. It was a warm night, and the roof-garden was full. From where they sat they could see the million twinkling lights of the city. John, watching them, as he smoked a cigarette at the conclusion of the meal, had fallen into a dream. He came to himself with a start, to find Smith in conversation with a waiter. "Yes, my name is Smith," he was saying. The waiter retired to one of the tables and spoke to a young man sitting there. John, recollected having seen this solitary diner looking in their direction once or twice during dinner, but the fact had not impressed him. "What's the matter?" he asked. "The man at that table sent over to ask if my name was Smith. It was. He is now coming along to chat in person. I wonder why. I don't know him from Adam." The stranger was threading his way between the tables. "Can I have a word with you, Mr. Smith?" he said. The waiter brought a chair and he seated himself. "By the way," said Smith, "my friend, Mr. Maude. Your own name will doubtless come up in the course of general chitchat over the coffee-cups." "Not on your tintype it won't," said the stranger decidedly. "It won't be needed. Is Mr. Maude on your paper? That's all right, then. I can go ahead." He turned to Smith. "It's about that Broster Street thing." "More fame!" murmured Smith. "We certainly are making a hit with the great public over Broster Street." "Well, you understand certain parties have got it in against you?" "A charming conversationalist, one Comrade Parker, hinted at something of the sort in a recent conversation. We shall endeavor, however, to look after ourselves." "You'll need to. The man behind is a big bug." "Who is he?" The stranger shrugged his shoulders. "Search me. You wouldn't expect him to give that away." "Then on what system have you estimated the size of the gentleman's bug-hood? What makes you think that he's a big bug?" "By the number of dollars he was ready to put up to have you put through." Smith's eyes gleamed for an instant, but he spoke as coolly as ever. "Oh!" he said. "And which gang has he hired?" "I couldn't say. He--his agent, that is--came to Bat Jarvis. Bat for some reason turned the job down." "He did? Why?"