Wingate looked thoughtfully at the man whom he had come to visit, studying his appearance in every detail.  Then he leaned across and laid his hand upon his shoulder.

“Andrew,” he said, “you and I have looked out at life once or twice and seen the big things.  I guess there’s no false shame between us.  I can say what I want, can’t I?”

“I should say so,” was the hearty reply.  “Get right on with it, John.  I’ve passed the blushing age.”

“It’s like this,” Wingate explained.  “I’ve got a job for you.  You can’t do it like that.  Walk to the door, will you?”

“Damn it, I know you’re going to look at my boots!” Slate declared, as he rose unwillingly and obeyed.

“You’ve got it at once,” Wingate acquiesced.  “You’re a smart fellow still, Slate, I see.  Now listen.  You can’t do my job like that.  Here’s twenty pounds on account.  I’m going to stroll around to the Milan Grillroom and take a table for luncheon.  I shall expect you there in half an hour.  You’re in the neighbourhood for quick changes.”

Slate took the money and reached for his hat.

“Come along, then.  You take the lift down.  I’ll go by the stairs.  I shan’t be late, unless you’d like me to stop and have a shave and my hair trimmed.”

“Great idea,” Wingate assented.  “I’ll make it three quarters.  There really isn’t any hurry.  Say an hour, if you like.  I’ll be sitting down inside.”

The metamorphosis in Andrew Slate was complete.  With his closely trimmed white hair, the dark growth gone from his chin, in a well-cut morning coat and trousers, a grey tie and fashionable collar, his appearance was entirely irreproachable.  Wingate nodded his satisfaction as he approached the table.

“Jolly well done, Andrew,” he declared.  “You certainly do pay for dressing, my boy.  Now drink that cocktail up and we’ll talk business.”

Andrew Slate’s altered deportment would have delighted the author of “Sartor Resartus.”  With his modish and correct clothes, his self-respect seemed to have returned.  He carried himself differently, there was a confident ring in his tone.  He studied the menu which Wingate passed him, through a well-polished eyeglass, and one could well have believed that he was a distinguished and frequent patron of the place.

“Well, what is it, Wingate?” he asked at last, when the business of ordering luncheon was concluded.  “I only hope it’s something I can tackle.”

“You can tackle it all right,” his companion assured him encouragingly.  “For a week or ten days you’ve nothing more to do than a little ordinary detective business.  If I decide to carry out a scheme which is forming in my mind, it will be a more serious affair.  Time enough for that, though.  I should just like to ask you this.  Can you find a few bullies of the Tom Grogan class, if necessary?”