I reached the dignified, conservative apartment-hotel at dinnertime. Tony's rooms were on the fourth floor facing a sunny, flowery courtyard. It was a strangely incongruous setting for what was to happen that night.
His secretary-valet let me in. I noticed that the man's face was unnaturally gray and that his eyes showed signs of a sleepless night.
"Mr. Henderson is expecting you, sir." He seemed grateful that I had arrived.
Tony turned abruptly from his position at the window.
"Mac! My God, man, but I'm glad you came!" He came forward eagerly, with outstretched hand.
I ignored the gesture. "Hullo, Tony," I said. Then to cover the awkward pause, "You look damn sick."
He ran a hand across his white forehead. "Do I?" he said, and laughed.
"Well, what's up?" I demanded rather sharply.
"I generally have dinner downstairs. That all right with you, or shall we go out somewhere?"
Our conversation was perfunctory until the head waiter had found us a table in
"The stone of Nyi was never found after the night of Tony's death."
