The Futurist was not an especially ornate place, although a great deal of money had evidently been expended in fitting it up to attract a recherche clientele.

Our table, which Kennedy had indicated, was, as he had said, in a sort of little recess, where we could see without being much observed ourselves, although that seemed almost an impossibility in such a place.  In fact, I noticed before we had had time to seat ourselves that we had already attracted the attention of two show girls who sat down the aisle and were amusing themselves at watching us by means of a mirror.  It would not have been very difficult to persuade them to dispense with the mirror.

A moment later Clare Kendall entered and paused at the door an instant, absorbing the gay scene as only a woman and a detective could.  Craig rose and advanced to meet her, and as she caught sight of us her face brightened.  The show girls eyed her narrowly and with but slight approval.

“We feel more at ease with a lady in the party,” remarked Craig, as they reached the table and I rose to greet her.  “Two men alone here are quite as noticeable as two ladies.  Walter, I know, was quite uncomfortable.”

“To say nothing of the fact which you omitted,” I retaliated, “that it is a pleasure to be with Miss Kendall—­even if we must talk shop all the time.”

Clare smiled, for her quick intuition had already taken in and dismissed as of no importance the two show girls.  We ordered as a matter of course, then settled back for a long interval until the waiter out of the goodness of his heart might retrieve whatever was possible from the mob of servitors where refreshments were dispensed.

“Opposite us,” whispered Clare, resting her chin on her interlocked fingers and her elbows on the tip-edge of the table, “do you see that athletic-looking young lady, who seems to be ready for anything from tea to tango?  Well, the man with her is Martin Ogleby.”

Ogleby was of the tall, sloping-shouldered variety, whom one can see on the Avenue and in the clubs and hotels in such numbers that it almost seems that there must be an establishment for turning them out, even down to a trademark concealed somewhere about them, “Made in England.”  Only Ogleby seemed a little different in the respect that one felt that if all the others were stamped by the same die, he was the die, at least.  Compared to him many of the others took on the appearance of spurious counterfeits.

“Dr. Harris,” Craig whispered, indicating to us the direction with his eyes.

Outside on a settee, we could see in the corridor a man waiting, restless and ill at ease.  Now and then he looked covertly at his watch as if he expected someone who was late and he wondered if anything could be amiss.

Just then a superbly gowned woman alighted from a cab.  The starter bowed as if she were familiar.  It was evident that this was the woman for whom Harris waited, the “Marie” of the letter.