Some thirty people or more were scattered about the room, mostly in small parties seated around marble-topped tables.

Beer was the favorite beverage; a minority was eating, the menu being strange and wondrous, and everyone was smoking cigarettes.

When Curtis received his share of the poisonous decoction so vaunted by Steingall, he faced the company, glass in hand, and saw Count Vassilan seated in a corner close to a window.

With him were a good-looking Italian girl and a youth, and the three were deep in eager converse, giving no heed to the other revelers, but rather taking advantage of the prevalent clatter of talk and drinking utensils to discuss whatever topic it was which proved so interesting.
Steingall's eyes carried a question, and Curtis shook his head.
Vassilan's male companion bore only the slight resemblance of a kindred nationality to the men who committed the murder, while he differed essentially from the treacherous "Anatole." "I wish your best girl could see you now, John D.," whispered Devar, who had just recovered from a violent fit of coughing induced by the raw whisky which Siegelman dispensed under the seal of vodka.

Curtis laughed at the conceit, which was grotesque in its very essence.