It was fortunate there were no menus. Lennox could not have read a menu even if there had been enough light. He was served hors-d'oeuvres, mussel soup, saddle of lamb, pommes soufflés, a still burgundy, salade fatigué, and something in a covered dish which he was too hazy to investigate. His faculties were restored by the blinding discovery that the gentleman seated two table down from him was Mr. Thomas Bleutcher of Brockton, Mass. The young lady with him was not his daughter. "The scoundrel!" Lennox muttered. "The lecherous dog. He richly deserves a lesson." He perceived that there was a brandy inhaler before him with a half inch of cognac in the bottom. Quite defiantly, he drank the cognac off without ceremony and devoted himself to the problem of disciplining Mr. Bleutcher's morals. "How to chastise the heart of old Four-Buckle Arctics?" he asked himself. "Hit him in his carbohydrates? No. Where is his heart? In his boots. Very funny, Mr. Lennox. Oh, very funny indeed." He shook with laughter, slid under the table and began crawling on the floor toward Bleutcher. The maitre d'hotel rushed toward him in dismay. Before he could speak, Lennox lifted a finger to his lips and gave him an urgent look. The maitre d'hotel hesitated for a moment in perplexity. Lennox reached under Bleutcher's table and seized that unsuspecting man's feet. With a violent yank, he tried to pull Bleutcher's shoes off. Bleutcher disappeared under the table as if dropped through a trap door. The table went over with a crash, and the hostess toppled with it. Lennox arose triumphantly from the screaming and shouting with one black kid chiropractic oxford in his hand. He still had it, concealed under his coat, when he was deposited on the street outside The Crystal Key one minute later. It was fortunate for Lennox that the policeman had returned to his beat; otherwise he might have been seriously hurt. He weaved downtown, searching for a phone. In the forties he passed a theater, entered the lobby and politely requested to be directed to a booth. He was informed that the telephones were inside the theater. He puzzled this out and with a flash of logic that delighted him, reasoned that he needed a ticket to make the phone call. There were no tickets left but he was sold standing room admission. Lennox tip-toed into the theater, went down to the men's lounge and called The Brompton House. After some hanky-panky, Olga answered the phone. "Your father," Lennox said, "is a rogue." "My father," Olga replied, "is a pain in the ass." "No longer. You are revenged." Lennox described his triumph. Olga began to scream with laughter. "Does he know it was you?" she asked. "Couldn't say. What are you doing up in the hotel?" "Having dinner in the suite. I got so fed up with him I played sick. What are you going to do about it?" Lennox hesitated and then thought: "Oh, what the hell!" He said: "I was thinking of bringing his shoe back."