In his own way, he applied to his profession the maxim of Horace--_Ars est celare artem_.
And he had his reward in that cry of dismay, almost of horror, which burst from Curtis's lips when he heard the true name of the murdered man.
Uncle Horace's seemingly maladroit interruption (it raised him to a pinnacle of esteem in Devar's mind from which he was never dislodged subsequently) prevented any striking development until a glad-eyed waiter had entered and taken an order for four highballs.

Even Mrs.
Curtis admitted the need of a stimulant, but Curtis steadily refused any intoxicant, even the mildest.

Steingall endured the delay stoically.

He actually held back a sufficient time to allow Horace P.
Curtis to empty his glass with one well-sustained effort.

Then he came to close quarters with Napoleonic directness.
"I take it you assumed that the dead man was the Jean de Courtois mentioned in the marriage license ?" he said.
He gave that question pride of place in pursuance of a queer thought which had leaped into his brain during the enforced interval.