“Why shouldn’t I?  I been at it these twenty years.”

She had taken him in now, from his polished silk hat, gray hair, and red cheeks down to his check trousers, white spats, and well-brushed shoes.  Her own face was by this time wreathed in smiles; she saw the man was a gentleman who had intended only to be courteous.  “Is that what ye came to tell me?” she cried.

“No, but I would have done so if I had ever watched you work.  Oh, here it is,” he continued, drawing out his pocketbook.  “I want you to—­” he stopped and looked at her from over the rims of his gold spectacles—­ “but I may not have hold of the right person.  May I ask if you belong here?”

Her head went up with a toss, her eyes dancing.  “Of course ye can ask anything ye please, but I’ll tell ye right off I don’t belong here.  Every blessed thing here belongs to me and my man John.”

The passenger broke into a laugh.  He had evidently found a rara avis, and was enjoying the discovery to the full.  American types always interested him; this sample of Irish-New York was a revelation.

“Go on,” smiled Kitty, “I’m waitin’.”

“Well, take this order to No. 3 Gramercy Park, and they will give you my two boxes, a shirt case, a roll of steamer-rugs, and some golf-sticks in a leather pouch, five pieces in all.  Get them down to the Cunard dock by eleven, and my servant will be there to take charge of them.  The steamer sails at twelve.  Is that clear?”

She reached for the paper and began checking off the number of the apartment, number of pieces, dock, and hour.  This was all that interested her.

“It is—­clear as mud—­and they’ll be on time.  And now, who’s to pay?”

“I am, and—­” He stopped suddenly, staring in blank amazement at Felix, who had just emerged from the side door and was stopping for a word with one of John’s drivers.  “My God!” he muttered in a low voice, as if talking to himself.  “I can’t be mistaken.”

Felix nodded a good morning to Kitty and, with an alert, quick stride crossed the sidewalk diagonally, and bent his steps toward Kling’s.

The Englishman followed him with his gaze, his open pocketbook still in his hands.  “Is that gentleman a customer of yours?” Had he seen a dead man suddenly come to life he could not have been more astounded.

“He is, and pays his rent like one.”

“Rent?  For what?” The customer seemed completely at sea.

“For my up-stairs room.  He’s my lodger and I never had a better.”

The Englishman caught his breath.  “Do you know who he is?” he asked cautiously.

“Of course I do!  Do you happen to know him?” John had moved up now and stood listening.

“Not personally, but, unless I am very much mistaken, that is Sir Felix O’Day.”

“Ye ain’t mistaken, you’re dead right—­all but the ‘Sir.’  That’s somethin’ new to me.  It’s Mr. Felix O’Day around here, and there ain’t a finer nor a better.  What do ye know about him?” Her voice had softened and a slight shade of anxiety had crept into it.  John craned his head to hear the better.