It was by Smith's suggestion that the editorial staff of Peaceful Moments dined that night at the Astor roof-garden.
"The tired brain," he said, "needs to recuperate. To feed on such a night as this in some low-down hostelry on the level of the street, with German waiters breathing heavily down the back of one's neck and two fiddles and a piano hitting up ragtime about three feet from one's tympanum, would be false economy. Here, fanned by cool breezes and surrounded by passably fair women and brave men, one may do a certain amount of tissue-restoring. Moreover, there is little danger up here of being slugged by our moth-eaten acquaintance of this afternoon. We shall probably find him waiting for us at the main entrance with a black-jack, but till then "
He turned with gentle grace to his soup. It was a warm night, and the roof-garden was full. From where they sat they could see the million twinkling lights of the city. John, watching them, as he smoked a cigarette at the conclusion of the meal, had fallen into a dream. He came to himself with a start, to find Smith in conversation with a waiter.
"Yes, my name is Smith," he was saying.
The waiter retired to one of the tables and spoke to a young man sitting there. John, recollected having seen this solitary diner looking in their direction once or twice during dinner, but the fact had not impressed him.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"The man at that table sent over to ask if my name was Smith. It was.
He is now coming along to chat in person. I wonder why. I don't know him from Adam."
The stranger was threading his way between the tables.
"Can I have a word with you, Mr. Smith?" he said. The waiter brought a chair and he seated himself.
"By the way," said Smith, "my friend, Mr. Maude. Your own name will doubtless come up in the course of general chitchat over the coffee-cups."
"Not on your tintype it won't," said the stranger decidedly. "It won't be needed. Is Mr. Maude on your paper? That's all right, then. I can go ahead."
He turned to Smith.
"It's about that Broster Street thing."
"More fame!" murmured Smith. "We certainly are making a hit with the great public over Broster Street."
"Well, you understand certain parties have got it in against you?"
"A charming conversationalist, one Comrade Parker, hinted at something of the sort in a recent conversation. We shall endeavor, however, to look after ourselves."
"You'll need to. The man behind is a big bug."
"Who is he?"
The stranger shrugged his shoulders.
"Search me. You wouldn't expect him to give that away."
"Then on what system have you estimated the size of the gentleman's bug-hood? What makes you think that he's a big bug?"
"By the number of dollars he was ready to put up to have you put through."
Smith's eyes gleamed for an instant, but he spoke as coolly as ever.
"Oh!" he said. "And which gang has he hired?"
"I couldn't say. He his agent, that is came to Bat Jarvis. Bat for some reason turned the job down."
"He did? Why?"
"Search me. Nobody knows. But just as soon as he heard who it was he was being asked to lay for, he turned it down cold. Said none of his fellows was going to put a finger on anyone who had anything to do with your paper. I don't know what you've been doing to Bat, but he sure is the long-lost brother to you."
"A powerful argument in favor of kindness to animals!" said Smith. "One of his celebrated stud of cats came into the possession of our stenographer. What did she do? Instead of having the animal made into a nourishing soup, she restored it to its bereaved owner. Observe the sequel. We are very much obliged to Comrade Jarvis."
"He sent me along," went on the stranger, "to tell you to watch out, because one of the other gangs was dead sure to take on the job. And he said you were to know that he wasn't mixed up in it. Well, that's all.
I'll be pushing along. I've a date. Glad to have met you, Mr. Maude.
Good-night."
For a few moments after he had gone, Smith and John sat smoking in silence.
"What's the time?" asked Smith suddenly. "If it's not too late Hello, here comes our friend once more."
The stranger came up to the table, a light overcoat over his dress clothes. From the pocket of this he produced a watch.
"Force of habit," he said apologetically, handing it to John. "You'll pardon me. Good-night again."
CHAPTER XVIII 
THE HIGHFIELD 
John looked after him, open-mouthed. The events of the evening had been a revelation to him. He had not realized the ramifications of New York's underworld. That members of the gangs should appear in gorgeous raiment in the Astor roof-garden was a surprise. "And now," said Smith, "that our friend has so sportingly returned your watch, take a look at it and see the time. Nine? Excellent. We shall do it comfortably."
"What's that?" asked John.
"Our visit to the Highfield. A young friend of mine who is fighting there to-night sent me tickets a few days ago. In your perusal of Peaceful Moments you may have chanced to see mention of one Kid Brady. He is the man. I was intending to go in any case, but an idea has just struck me that we might combine pleasure with business. Has it occurred to you that these black-jack specialists may drop in on us at the office? And, if so, that Comrade Maloney's statement that we are not in may be insufficient to keep them out? Comrade Brady would be an invaluable assistant. And as we are his pugilistic sponsors, without whom he would not have got this fight at all, I think we may say that he will do any little thing we may ask of him."
It was certainly true that, from the moment the paper had taken up his cause, Kid Brady's star had been in the ascendant. The sporting pages of the big dailies had begun to notice him, until finally the management of the Highfield Club had signed him on for a ten-round bout with a certain Cyclone Dick Fisher.
"He should," continued Smith, "if equipped in any degree with the finer feelings, be bubbling over with gratitude toward us. At any rate, it is worth investigating."