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It was Warrington's invariable habit—when no business or socialengagement pressed him to go elsewhere—to drop into a certain quaintlittle restaurant just off Broadway for his dinners. It was out of theway; the throb and rattle of the great commercial artery became likethe far-off murmur of the sea, restful rather than annoying. He alwaysmade it a point to dine alone, undisturbed. The proprietor nor hissilent-footed waiters had the slightest idea who Warrington was. Tothem he was simply a profitable customer who signified that he dinedthere in order to be alone. His table was up stairs. Below, there wasalways the usual dinner crowd till theater time; and the music had thefacu