“Nonsense,” Lillian said, brusquely, “the man is just an ordinary common lady-killer of the type that infests these hotels, and ought to be horsewhipped at sight.  You’re getting fanciful, and I don’t wonder at it.  You’ve had a terrible summer, with all that trouble the Draper caused you, and I imagine you haven’t been having any too easy a time with dear mamma-in-law, I’m mighty glad you’re going to get away with Dicky by yourself.  A week in the mountains ought to set you up wonderfully, and you certainly need it when you start weaving mysterious tragedies about the commoner garden variety of ‘masher.’”

Lillian’s rough common sense steadied me, as it always does.  I felt ashamed of my momentary emotion.

“I fancy you’re right, Lillian,” I said nonchalantly.  “Let’s forget about it and have some lunch.  Where shall we go?”

“There’s a bully little tea room down the street here.” she said.  “It’s very English, with the tea cozies and all that sort of frills, and some of their luncheon dishes are delicious.  Shall we try it?”

“By all means,” I returned, and we went out of the hotel together.

Although I looked around furtively and fearfully as we left the hotel entrance, I could see no trace of the man who had so startled me.  Scoring myself for being so foolish as to imagine that the man might still be keeping track of me, I put all thought of his actions away from me and kept up with Lillian’s brisk pace, chatting with her gayly over our past experience in buying hats and the execrable creations turned out by milliners generally.

The tea room proved all that Lillian had promised.  Fortunately, we were early enough to escape the noon hour rush and secure a good table near a window looking out upon the street.

“I like to look out upon the people passing, don’t you?” Lillian said, as she seated herself.

“Yes, I do,” I assented, and then we turned our attention to the menu cards.

“I’m fearfully hungry,” Lillian announced.  “I’ve been digging all morning.  Oh! it’s chicken pie here today.”  Her voice held all the glee of a gormandizing child.  “I don’t think these individual chicken pies they serve here can be beaten in New York,” she went on.  “You know the usual mess—­potatoes and onions, and a little bit of chicken mixed up with a sauce they insult with the name gravy.  These are the real article—­just the chicken meat with a delicious gravy covering it, baked in the most flaky crust you can imagine.  What do you say to those, with some baked potatoes, new lima beans, sliced tomatoes and an ice for dessert?”

“I don’t think it can be improved upon,” I said, gayly, and then I clutched Lillian’s arm.  “Look quickly,” I whispered, “the other side of the street!”

Lillian’s eyes followed mine to the opposite side of the street, where, walking slowly along, was the man I had seen in the hotel.  He did not once look toward the tea room, but as he came opposite to it he turned from the pavement and crossed the street leisurely toward us.