ON the following evening the redoubtable Jake turned up at the Boule ‘Miche’ in person. Bat Bartley brought him to our table. He was as smooth as a well-whipped mayonnaise.
In appearance he was the prosperous business man—well, not quite, for the marvelously cut blue suit, a little lighter in color than men usually wear, the pale pink shirt and tie of a darker hue gave him a sporting character. He wore an immense diamond on the middle finger of his left hand.
He was more the successful theatrical manager or baseball magnate. He had one of these smooth full faces that lent themselves naturally to an unctuous smile; his handsome, dark eyes rolled and beamed mysteriously, and gave nothing away.
His first act was to order up a bottle of “cider.” I found that he was always amply supplied wit
