These outlooks, too, were useful in solving many of the social problems that afflicted the young men about town; the identity, for instance, of the occupant of the hansom who had just driven past, heavily veiled, together with her destination and her reason for being out at all; why the four-in-hand went up empty and came back with a pretty woman beside the “Tooler,” and then turned up a side street toward the Park, instead of taking the Avenue into its confidence; what the young wife of the old doctor meant when she waved her hand to the occupant of a third-story window, and who lived there, and why—­None of their business, of course—­never could be—­but each and every escapade, incident and adventure being so much thrice-blessed manna to souls stranded in the desert waste of club conversation.

None of these things interested our hero, and he soon found himself listening to the talk at an adjoining table.  Topping, a young lawyer, Whitman Bunce, a man of leisure—­unlimited leisure—­ and one or two others, were rewarming some of the day’s gossip.

“Had the gall to tell Bob’s man he couldn’t sleep in linen sheets; had his own violet silk ones in his trunk, to match his pajamas.  The goat had ’em out and half on the bed when Bob came in and stopped him.  Awful row, I heard, when Mrs. Bob got on to it.  He’ll never go there again.”

“And I heard,” broke in Bunce, “that she ordered the trap and sent him back to the station.”

Other bits drifted Jack’s way: 

“Why he was waiting at the stage-door and she slipped out somewhere in front.  Billy was with her, so I heard. ...  When they got to Delmonico’s there came near being a scrap. ...  No. ...  Never had a dollar on Daisy Belle, or any other horse. ...”

Loud laughter was now heard at the end of the hall.  A party of young men had reached the foot of the stairs and were approaching Biffton and Jack.  Garry’s merry voice led the others.

“Still hard at work, are you, Biffy?  Why, hello, Jack!—­how long have you been here?  Morlon, you know Mr. Breen, don’t you?—­Yes, of course you do—­new member—­just elected.  Get a move on that carcass of yours, Biffy, and let somebody else get up to that table.  Charles, take the orders.”

Jack had shaken everybody’s hand by this time, Biffton having moved back a foot or two, and the circle had widened so that the poker party could reach their cocktails.  Garry extended his arm till his hand rested on Jack’s shoulder.

“Nothing sets me up like a game of poker, old man.  Been on the building all day.  You ought to come up with me some time—­I’ll show you the greatest piece of steel construction you ever saw.  Mr. Morris was all over it to-day.  Oh, by the way!  Did that old chunk of sandstone come up to see you last night?  What did you say his name was?”

Jack repeated Peter’s cognomen—­this time without rolling the syllables under his tongue—­said that Mr. Grayson had kept his promise; that the evening had been delightful, and immediately changed the subject.  There was no use trying to convert Garry.