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 attempt to cover his confusion, plunged madly into consideration of a column of table-d'hôte French, not one word of which conveyed the slightest particle of information to his intelligence.

"Well," he repeated, and moistened his lips. The room seemed suddenly very hot, notwithstanding the fact that an obnoxious electric fan was sending a current of cool air down the back of his neck.

"I ain't," he declared in ultimate desperation, "hungry, much. Had a bite a little while back, over to the Gilsey House bar."

"Would a little drink?"

"Thanks. I don't mind."

"Waiter, bring Mr. Hickey a bottle of Number Seventy-two. For me—let me see—café au lait," with a grand air, "and rolls. … You must remember this is my breakfast, Mr. Hickey. I make it a rule never to drink anything for six hours after rising." Anisty selected a cigarette from the Maitland case, lit it, and contemplated the detective's countenance with a winning smile. "Now, as to this Anisty affair last night. …"