Kennedy seemed to be impressed by the frankness and energy of the young woman.

“Perhaps if we three should go there, hire a private dining-room, and look about without making any move against the place that would excite suspicion, we might at least find out what it is that we are fighting.  Of course we must dine somewhere, and up there at the same time we can plan our campaign.”

“I think that would be ripping,” she laughed, as the humour of the situation dawned on her.  “Why, we shall be laying our plans right in the heart of the enemy’s country and they will never realize it.  Perhaps, too, we may get a glimpse of some of those people mentioned in the anonymous letter.”

To Clare Kendall it was simply another phase of the game which she had been playing against the forces of evil in the city.

The Little Montmartre was, as I already knew, one of the smaller hotels in a side street just off Broadway, eight or ten stories in height, of modern construction, and for all the world exactly like a score of other of the smaller hostelries of the famous city of hotels.

Clare, Craig, and myself pulled up before the entrance in a taxicab, that seeming to be the accepted method of entering with eclat.  A boy opened the door.  I jumped out and settled with the driver without a demur at the usual overcharge, while Craig assisted Clare.

Laughing and chatting, we entered the bronze plate-glass doors and walked slowly down a richly carpeted corridor.  It was elegantly furnished and decorated with large palms set at intervals, quite the equal in luxuriousness, though on a smaller scale, of any of the larger and well-known hotels.  Beautifully marked marbles and expensive hangings greeted the eye at every turn.  Faultlessly liveried servants solicitously waited about for tips.

Craig and Clare, who were slightly ahead of me, turned quickly into a little alcove, or reception room and Craig placed a chair for her.  Farther down the corridor I could see the office, and beyond a large main dining-room from which strains of music came and now and then the buzz of conversation and laughter from gay parties at the immaculately white tables.

“Boy,” called Kennedy quietly, catching the eye of a passing bell hop and unostentatiously slipping a quarter into his hand, which closed over the coin almost automatically, “the head waiter, please.  Oh—­er—­by the way—­what is his name?”

“Julius,” returned the boy, to whom the proceeding seemed to present nothing novel, although the whole atmosphere of the place was beyond his years.  “I’ll get him in a minute, sir.  He’s in the main dining-room.  He’s having some trouble with the cabaret singers.  One of them is late—­as usual.”

We sat in the easy chairs watching the people passing and repassing in the corridor.  There was no effort at concealment here.

A few minutes later Julius appeared, a young man, tall and rather good-looking, suave and easy.  A word or two with Kennedy followed, during which a greenback changed hands—­in fact that seemed to be the open sesame to everything here—­and we were in the elevator decorously escorted by the polished Julius.