“Thank you,” replied Jack.  “I’ve just dropped in to look for Garry Minott.  Has he been in?”

Biff was the bulletin-board of the Magnolia club.  As he roomed upstairs, he could be found here at any hour of the day or night.

Biff did not reply at once; there was no use in hurrying—­not about anything.  Besides, the connection between Biff’s ears and his brain was never very good.  One had to ring him up several times before he answered.

Jack waited for an instant, and finding that the message was delayed in transmission, helped himself to one of Biff’s “Specials”—­bearing in gold letters his name “Brent Biffton” in full on the rice paper—­dropped into the proffered chair and repeated the question: 

“Have you seen Garry?”

“Yes—­upstairs.  Got a deck in the little room.  Been there all afternoon.  Might go up and butt in.  Touch that bell before you go and say what.”

“No—­I won’t drink anything, if you don’t mind.  You heard about Garry’s winning the prize?”

“No.”  Biffton hadn’t moved since he had elongated his foot in search of Jack’s chair.

“Why Garry got first prize in his office.  I went with him to the supper; he’s with Holker Morris, you know.”

“Yes.  Rather nice.  Yes, I did hear.  The fellows blew him off upstairs.  Kept it up till the steward shut ’em out.  Awfully clever fellow, Minott.  My Governor wanted me to do something in architecture, but it takes such a lot of time ...  Funny how a fellow will dress himself.”  Biffton’s sleepy eyes were sweeping the Avenue.  “Pendergast just passed wearing white spats—­A month too late for spats—­ought to know better.  Touch the bell, Breen, and say what.”

Again Jack thanked him, and again Biffton relapsed into silence.  Rather a damper on a man of his calibre, when a fellow wouldn’t touch a bell and say what.

Jack having a certain timidity about “butting in”—­outsiders didn’t do such things where he came from—­settled himself into the depths of the comfortable leather-covered arm-chair and waited for Garry to finish his game.  From where he sat he could not only overlook the small tables holding a choice collection of little tear-bottles, bowls of crushed ice and high-pressure siphons, but his eye also took in the stretch beyond, the club windows commanding the view up and down and quite across the Avenue, as well as the vista to the left.

This outlook was the most valuable asset the Magnolia possessed.  If the parasol was held flat, with its back to the club-house, and no glimpse of the pretty face possible, it was, of course, unquestionable evidence to the member looking over the top of his cocktail that neither the hour or the place was propitious.  If, however, it swayed to the right or left, or better still, was folded tight, then it was equally conclusive that not only was the coast clear, but that any number of things might happen, either at Tiffany’s, or the Academy, or wherever else one of those altogether accidental—­“Why-who-would-have-thought-of-seeing-you-here” kind of meetings take place—­meetings so delightful in themselves because so unexpected.