M. Pigot turned to us with a little smile.

“Till to-morrow, gentlemen,” he said.  “I shall be at the Hotel Astor, and shall be glad to see you—­shall we say at eleven o’clock?  I am truly sorry that I can tell you nothing to-night.”

He shook hands with the purser, waved his hand to us, and joined Grady, who was watching these amenities with evident impatience.  Together they disappeared down the stair.

“A contrast in manners, was it not, gentlemen?” asked Godfrey, looking about him.  “Didn’t you blush for America?”

The men laughed, for they knew he was after Grady, and yet it was evident enough that they agreed with him.

“Come on, Lester,” he added; “we might as well be getting back.  I can send the boat down again after the other boys,” and he turned down the stair.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE SECRET OF THE CABINET

Godfrey bade me good-bye at the dock and hastened away to the office to write his story, which, I could guess, would be concerned with the manners of Americans, especially with Grady’s.  As for me, that whiff of salt air had put an unaccustomed edge to my appetite, and I took a cab to Murray’s, deciding to spend the remainder of the evening there, over a good dinner.  Except in a certain mood, Murray’s does not appeal to me; the pseudo-Grecian temple in the corner, with water cascading down its steps, the make-believe clouds which float across the ceiling, the tables of glass lighted from beneath—­all this, ordinarily, seems trivial and banal; but occasionally, in an esoteric mood, I like Murray’s, and can even find something picturesque and romantic in bright gowns, and gleaming shoulders, and handsome faces seen amid these bizarre surroundings.  And then, of course, there is always the cooking, which leaves nothing to be desired.

I was in the right mood to-night for the enjoyment of the place, and I ambled through the dinner in a fashion so leisurely and trifled so long over coffee and cigarette that it was far past ten o’clock when I came out again into Forty-second Street.  After an instant’s hesitation, I decided to walk home, and turned back toward Broadway, already filling with the after-theatre crowd.

Often as I have seen it, Broadway at night is still a fascinating place to me, with its blazing signs, its changing crowds, its clanging street traffic, its bright shop-windows.  Grady was right in saying that “gay Paree” had nothing like it; nor has any other city that I know.  It is, indeed, unique and thoroughly American; and I walked along it that night in the most leisurely fashion, savouring it to the full; pausing, now and then, for a glance at a shop-window, and stopping at the Hoffman House—­now denuded, alas! of its Bouguereau—­to replenish my supply of cigarettes.

Reaching Madison Square, at last, I walked out under the trees, as I almost always do, to have a look at the Flatiron Building, white against the sky.  Then I glanced up at the Metropolitan tower, higher but far less romantic in appearance, and saw by the big illuminated clock that it was nearly half-past eleven.