the smaller apartments, or had driven off again to where the lights from the larger but less smart Altoné flashed out upon the smooth, dark waters of the Thames. Only one table was as yet unoccupied, and that was within a yard or two of the three young men who were celebrating a chance meeting in Pall Mall so pleasantly. It was laid for two only, and a magnificent bunch of white roses had, a few minutes before, been brought in and laid in front of one of the places by the director of the rooms himself. A man’s small visiting-card was leaning against a wineglass. The table was evidently reserved by some one of importance, for several late-comers had pointed to it, only to be met by a decided shake of the head on the part of the waiter to whom they had appealed. As time went on, this empty table became the object of some speculation to the three young men.

“Our neighbours,” remarked Wolfenden, “are running it pretty fine. Can you see whose name is upon the card, Densham?”

The man addressed raised an eyeglass to his left eye and leaned forward. Then he shook his head, he was a little too far away.

“No! It is a short name. Seems to begin with S. Probably a son of Israel!”

“His taste in flowers is at any rate irreproachable,” Wolfenden remarked. “I wish they would come. I am in a genial mood, and I do not like to think of any one having to hurry over such an excellent supper.”

“The lady,” Densham suggested, “is probably theatrical, and has to dress after the show. Half-past twelve is a barbarous hour to turn us out. I wonder——”

“Sh-sh!”

The slight exclamation and a meaning frown from Wolfenden checked his speech. He broke off in the middle of his sentence, and looked round. There was the soft swish of silk passing his chair, and the faint suggestion of a delicate and perfectly strange perfume. At last the table was being taken possession of. A girl, in a wonderful white dress, was standing there, leaning over to admire the great bunch of creamy-white blossoms, whilst a waiter respectfully held a chair for her. A few steps behind came her companion, an elderly man who walked with a slight limp, leaning heavily upon a stick. She turned to him and made some remark in French, pointing to the flowers. He smiled, and passing her, stood for a moment leaning slightly upon the back of his chair, waiting, with a courtesy which was obviously instinctive, until she should have seated herself. During the few seconds which elapsed before they were settled in their places he glanced around the room with a smile, slightly cynical, but still good-natured, parting his thin, well-shaped lips. Wolfenden and Densham, who were looking at him with frank curiosity, he glanced at carelessly. The third young man of the party, Felix, was bending low over his plate, and his face was hidden.

The buzz of conversation in their immediate vicinity had been temporarily suspended. Every one who had seen them enter had been interested in these late-comers, and many curious eyes had followed them to their seats. Briefly, the girl was beautiful and the man distinguished. When they had taken their places, however, the hum of conversation recommenced. Densham and Wolfenden leaned over to one another, and their questions were almost simultaneous.

“Who are they?”

“Who is she?”

Alas! neither of them knew; neither of them had the least idea. Felix, Wolfenden’s guest, it seemed useless to ask. He had only just arrived in England, and he was a complete stranger to London. Besides, he did not seem to be interested. He was proceeding calmly with his supper, with his back directly turned upon the new-comers. Beyond one rapid, upward glance at their entrance he seemed almost to have avoided looking at them. Wolfenden thought of this afterwards.

“I see Harcutt in the corner,” he said. “He will know who they are for certain. I shall go and ask him.”

He crossed the room and chatted for a few minutes with a noisy little party in an adjacent recess. Presently he put his question. Alas! not one of them knew! Harcutt, a journalist of some note and a man who prided himself upon knowing absolutely everybody, was as helpless as the rest. To his humiliation he was obliged to confess it.

“I never saw either of them before in my life,” he said. “I cannot imagine who they can be. They are certainly foreigners.”

“Very likely,” Wolfenden agreed quietly. “In fact, I never doubted it. An English girl of that age—she is very young by the bye—would never be so perfectly turned out.”

“What a very horrid thing to say, Lord Wolfenden,” exclaimed the woman on whose chair his hand was resting. “Don’t you know that dressing is altogether a matter of one’s maid? You may rely upon it that that girl has found a treasure!”

“Well, I don’t know,” Wolfenden said, smiling. “Young English girls always seem to me to look so dishevelled in evening dress. Now this girl is dressed with the art of a Frenchwoman of mature years, and yet with the simplicity of a child.”

The woman laid down her lorgnettes and shrugged her shoulders.

“I agree with you,” she said, “that she is probably not English. If she were she would not wear such diamonds at her age.”

“By the bye,” Harcutt remarked with sudden cheerfulness, “we shall be able to find out who the man is when we leave. The table was reserved, so the name will be on the list at the door.”

His friends rose to leave and Harcutt, making his adieux, crossed the room with Wolfenden.

“We may as well have our coffee together,” he said. “I ordered Turkish and I’ve been waiting for it ten minutes. We got here early. Hullo! where’s your other guest?”

Densham was sitting alone. Wolfenden looked at him inquiringly.

“Your friend Felix has gone,” he announced. “Suddenly remembered an engagement with his chief, and begged you to excuse him. Said he’d look you up to-morrow.”

“Well, he’s an odd fellow,” Wolfenden remarked, motioning Harcutt to the vacant place. “His looks certainly belie his name.”

“He’s not exactly a cheerful companion for a supper party,” Densham admitted, “but I like his face. How did you come across him, Wolfenden, and where does he hail from?”

“He’s a junior attaché at the Russian Embassy,” Wolfenden said, stirring his coffee. “Only just been appointed. Charlie Meynell gave him a line of introduction to me; said he was a decent sort, but mopish! I looked him up last week, met him in Pall Mall just as you came along, and asked you both to supper. What liqueurs, Harcutt?”

The conversation drifted into ordinary channels and flowed on steadily. At the same time it was maintained with a certain amount of difficulty. The advent of these two people at the next table had produced an extraordinary effect upon the three men. Harcutt was perhaps the least affected. He was a young man of fortune and natural gifts, who had embraced journalism as a career, and was really in love with his profession. Partly on account of his social position, which was unquestioned, and partly because his tastes tended in that direction, he had become the recognised scribe and chronicle of smart society. His pen was easy and fluent. He was an inimitable maker of short paragraphs. He prided himself upon knowing everybody and all about them. He could have told how much a year Densham, a rising young portrait painter, was making from his profession, and exactly what Wolfenden’s allowance from his father was. A strange face was an annoyance to him; too, a humiliation. He had been piqued that he could not answer the eager questions of his own party as to these two people, and subsequently Wolfenden’s