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T WAS long past midnight. At Giacomo's Restaurant two loiterers still lingered despite the fact that it was an imposition on the solitary waiter who impatiently remained to lock up. Giacomo prides himself on never turning out a guest no matter how unearthly the hour; but the hospitality of the restaurateur was not reflected in the bleary-eyed, drowsy appearance of the waiter. He considered the presence of the silent two a rank imposition, aggravated by the fact that he expected but scant tips, for usually men so ultra-taciturn were too preoccupied with their own thoughts to remember such mundane things.

The younger man was well dressed and rather good-looking, not the sort of "good-looking" which is pictured in collar "ads" and other atrocious posters, but there was an air of strength and energy about him. His face reflected a rather keen mentality, although it must be admitted, his expression at the moment was one of extreme disgust and boredom.

He motioned to the waiter.

"Another cup of coffee."

"Black coffee?" yawned the waiter a trifle irritably.

"The usual color," was the reply. "I have heard of pink teas but was unaware that coffee had become esthetic."

The waiter had already slouched off to the kitchen, so the sarcasm was wasted. But the young man failed to notice this breach of manners, for his eyes for the first time met those of the man who occupied the other table, and stayed. There was nothing distinctive about the elderly stranger. He was just a tiny bit of a man about sixty years of age, such as one meets a dozen times a day in New York City. He did not appear to be poor even though he was extremely thin, almost emaciated-looking, evidently a chronic dieter, prone to Fletcherism. Had it not been for the chance meeting of their eyes, the young man would never have been cognizant of the other's existence. Now, however, since their eyes had met, everything else on earth was forgotten. For perhaps a moment they sat and stared at 99