Maddon was a man in his own "set"-- and Maddon, interfered with, was likely to prove none too tractable a customer to handle.

And young Burton, the letter had said, was Maddon's private and confidential secretary.

Jimmie Dale's lips thinned again.

Well, Burton's acquaintance was still to be made! It was a curious trio--and it was dirty work, more raw than cunning, more devilish than ingenious; blackmail in its most hellish form; the stake, at the least calculation, a cool half million.
A heavy price for a single slip in a man's life! He brought the car abruptly to a halt at the edge of the curb, and sprang out to the ground.

He was in front of "The Budapest" restaurant, a garish establishment, most popular of all resorts for the moment on the East Side, where Fifth Avenue, in the fond belief that it was seeing the real thing in "seamy" life, engaged its table a week in advance.
Jimmie Dale pushed a bill into the door attendant's hand, accompanied by an injunction to keep an eye on the machine, and entered the cafe.
But for a sort of tinselled ostentation the place might well have been the Marlianne's that he had just left--it was crowded and riot was at its height; a stringed orchestra in Hungarian costume played what purported to be Hungarian airs; shouts, laughter, clatter of dishes, and thump of steins added to the din.