w, and Hemphill was thundering those
editorials of his that warned the Old Lion he would have to wake up and
clean the jungle, Hemphill was simply the errand urchin. There's the
man who wrote "To Arms, England!" one day after the Austrian note to
Serbia. Hemphill got the credit and the money--but Laurence De Foe did
it.'

Smyth's stream of narrative, which carried considerably less
impedimenta of caricature and persiflage than was usual with him, came
to an end with the arrival of two Twilight Tinkles and a generous-sized
tumbler, more than half-full of brandy. After an elaborate search of
his coat and trousers pockets to locate a five-pound note, Smyth was
forced to allow Selwyn to pay for the refreshment, promising to knock
him up before six next morning and repay him.

'Well, gentlemen,' said the conscientious artist, 'here's success to
crime!'

Not waiting to honour the misanthropic toast, Dick Durwent had reached
greedily for his glass, and poured its contents down his throat. With
a heavy sigh of gratification, he leaned back in his chair, and the
pallor of his cheeks showing beneath the weather-beaten surface of tan
was flecked with patches of colour. For an instant only his eyes went
yellow, as on the night at the Cafe Rouge; but the horrible glare died
out, and was succeeded by the calm, blue tranquillity that had reigned
before.

'By St. George!' said Smyth admiringly, 'but we have no amateur with
us, Selwyn.'

The solitary figure of De Foe, who had been watching them, left his
table, and lurching over to them, stood swaying unevenly.

'_Bon soir_, gentlemen,' he said, speaking with the deep sonorousness
which comes of long saturation of the vocal cords with undiluted
spirits, 'I think one or two of these faces are new to Archibald's. Am
I right?'

'Yes, sir,' said Smyth, rising. 'Permit me, Mr. De Foe, to
introduce'----

The writer stopped him with a slow, majestic movement of the hand.
'What care I who they are?' he said heavily. 'Names mean
nothing--pretty labels on empty vessels. By what right do these
gentlemen invade the sanctity of Archibald's?' He drew a chair near
them and sat down sullenly, hanging his arm over the back. 'Do I see
aright?' he queried thickly, opening his eyes with difficulty, and
revealing their lustreless shade. 'There are three of you? Humph!
The one I know--a clumsy dauber in a smudgy world.'

Smyth nodded delightedly to his companions to indicate that th