"Americans," explained the host, "always flock to the newest hotel on the theory that material progress is infallible and that the latest thing is necessarily the best thing. But cooking is not sanitary plumbing; it is an art! I am here not because of the journalistic, Sunday-special character of the filtered air and automatic temperature adjusters of this hotel, but because I discovered it had the best chef of all New York here. The food," he finished, with an air of overpraising, "is almost as good as in my own house. Have you any favorite dishes or doctor's diet to follow?"
"No, thank Heaven! I'll eat and drink whatever you'll order," replied the newspaper man.
"Thank you, Kidder--thank you!" said Mr. Robison, with an air of such profound gratitude that Kidder forgot to laugh. "I was hoping you would leave it to me to order the dinner; in fact, it is ordered. Thank you!" And he beckoned to the _maître d'hôtel_, who immediately hastened to the table and covered his face with a mask of extreme respectfulness. "You may begin to serve the dinner, Antoine," said Robison, simply.
"Dewey at Manila!" thought Kidder, impressed in spite of himself. His Wall Street work and his friendship with millionaires had accustomed him to all sorts of extravagances, but he admitted to himself he had never eaten so unconsciously well in his life. Emboldened by the dinner and the heartwarming wine, and his own growing affection for the curious man who said remarkable things through his nose and did remarkable things in a remarkably matter-of-fact way, Kidder was inspired to say over the coffee:
"I'd like to ask you two questions--just two."
"That's one more than Carlyle, who said that man had but one question to ask man, to wit: 'Can I kill thee or canst thou kill me?'"
"O king, live forever!" said Kidder, saluting. "Thanks. Shoot ahead."
"Did you know what was going to happen or were you really betting on the chance that Garrettson's absence meant something serious?" Kidder was looking at Robison with a steady gaze.
"There is, my dear boy, no such thing as chance. Irreligious people have invented chance to fill in a hiatus otherwise unbridgable. Right, my boy!" And Robison nodded.
"Your talks with Richards were mighty mysterious," said Kidder, with an accusing tone of voice he could not quite control.