“Cigars!” he ordered.  “Bring a box of Carolinas.”

“Yes, sir.  Are you Mr. Locke, sir?” inquired the new waiter.

“Yes,” said Kirk.

“Telephone message for you, Mr. Locke,” the waiter muttered.

“What’s that?” Anthony queried, loud enough for the others to hear.

“Somebody calling you by ’phone.  They’re holding the wire outside.  I’ll show you the booth.”

“Oh, will you?” Kirk Anthony’s hands suddenly shot out and seized the masquerader by the throat.  The man uttered a startled gasp, but simultaneously the iron grip of Marty Ringold fell upon his arms and doubled them behind him, while Kirk gibed: 

“You’ll get me outside and into a telephone booth, eh?  My dear sir, that is old stuff.”

The rest of the party were on their feet instantly, watching the struggle and crowding forward with angry exclamations.  Ringold, with the man’s two wrists locked securely in his own huge paw, was growling: 

“Smooth way to do up a fellow, I call it.”

“All the way from St. Louis for a telephone call, eh?” Anthony sank his thumbs into the stranger’s throat, then, as the man’s face grew black and his contortions diminished, added:  “We’re going to make a good waiter out of you.”

Jefferson Locke broke in excitedly:  “Choke him good!  Choke him!  That’s right.  Put him out for keeps.  For God’s sake, don’t let him go!”

But it was not Kirk’s idea to strangle his victim beyond a certain point.  He relaxed his grip after a moment and, nodding to Ringold to do likewise, took the fellow’s wrists himself, then swung him about until he faced the others.  The man’s lungs filled with fresh air, he began to struggle once more, and when his voice had returned he gasped: 

“I’ll get you for this.  You’ll do a trick—­” He mumbled a name that did not sound at all like Jefferson Locke, whereupon the Missourian made a rush at him that required the full strength of Anthony’s free hand to thwart.

“Here, stand back!  I’ve got him!”

“I’ll kill him!” chattered the other.

“Let me go,” the stranger gasped.  “I’ll take you all in.  I’m an officer.”

“It’s a lie!” shouted Locke.  “He’s a thief.”

“I tell you I’m—­an officer; I arrest this—­”

The words were cut off abruptly by a loud exclamation from Higgins and a crash of glass.  Kirk Anthony’s face was drenched, his eyes were filled with a stinging liquid; he felt his prisoner sink limply back into his arms and beheld Higgins struggling in the grasp of big Marty Ringold, the foil-covered neck of a wine bottle in his fingers.

The foolish fellow had been hovering uncertainly round the edges of the crowd, longing to help his friends and crazily anxious to win glory by some deed of valor.  At the first opening he had darted wildly into the fray, not realizing that the enemy was already helpless in the hands of his captors.