The only other man in the bar was a tall, dark, grimly handsome young American, who slouched in a leather corner and stared at Mr. Bushmill’s patent-leather shoes. Self-consciously Mr. Bushmill looked down at his shoes, wondering if the valet had deprived him of them too. Such was his relief to find them in place that he grinned at the young man and his hand went automatically to the business card in his coat pocket.
“Couldn’t locate my vests,” he said cordially. “That blamed valet took both my vests. See?”
He exposed the shameful overexpanse of his starched shirt.
“I beg your pardon?” said the young man, looking up with a start.
“My vests,” repeated Mr. Bushmill with less gusto—“lost my vests.”
The young man considered.
“I haven’t seen them,” he said.
“Oh, not here!” exclaimed Bush
