It was a cold night in early spring, and the West End streets were

nearly deserted. The great shutters of the shops were being drawn down

with a dull rumble, and every moment the pavements grew more dreary

looking as the glories of the plate-glass windows were hidden.

Tired workers with haggard faces were making their way homeward; to them

the day was at an end. But to the occupants of the whirring taxis and

smart motors, as they sped westward, the round of their day was but

half-way through; for them, the great ones of the earth, the

all-important hour of dinner was at hand.

At the entrance of one of the most luxurious clubs in Pall Mall two men,

in immaculate evening dress, stood carelessly surveying the hurrying

throngs of people.

"Seven," said one, as the hour struck from the nearest church. "I

thought Standon said seven."

"Yes, and like a woman, meant half-past," returned the other, hiding a

yawn.

"Stan's too young to value his dinner properly, but Leroy ought to have

been punctual. Oh, here is Stan!" as a slight, well-dressed man sprang

hastily from a smart motor and came towards them.

"Hello!" said the new-comer, shaking hands, "you two fellows first? I

hope I'm not late, Shelton."

"Of course you're late," growled Shelton, with characteristic pessimism.

"You always are, and Leroy is worse. Come along, we may as well wait

inside as in this beastly draught."

In the great dining-hall the snowy-covered tables were being taken

rapidly by members about to dine; silent-footed waiters were hurrying to

and fro, carrying out their various duties, while intermittently the

sound of opening champagne bottles mingled with the buzz of conversation

and the ripple of laughter.

The three men, Mortimer Shelton, Lord Standon and Frank Parselle, seated

themselves at a table in a comfortable recess and took stock of the

room, responding to numerous nods and smiles of recognition, while

grumbling at the unpunctuality of their friend.

"Ten past seven!" groaned Shelton, looking at his watch. "I might have

known that Leroy would be late. Shall we wait?"

"Oh, yes!" said Parselle; "Adrien might not like it, you know. It is a

bore, though! The soup will be as thick as mud!"

"By Jove! I'd forgotten," interrupted Standon suddenly. "I met Leroy

yesterday, and he asked me to tell you he might be late, as he was off

to Barminster Castle last night. We were not to wait. He gave me a note,

and--if I haven't left it in my other coat--" He fumbled in his pocket.

"No; here it is." He produced the note with an air of triumph, and

Shelton, with a muttered exclamation of disgust, ordered dinner to be

served before he opened it. As he did so and ran his eye over the

contents, he frowned.




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