your nice fish, darling," said the mother, who seemed to be one
of those dull-witted persons whom it is impossible to interest in a
discussion on first causes.

Archie felt stimulated. Not even the advent of his father-in-law, who
came in a few moments later and sat down at the other end of the room,
could depress his spirits.

The Sausage Chappie came to his table again.

"It's a funny thing," he said. "Like waking up after you've been asleep.
Everything seems to be getting clearer. The dog's name was Marie. My
wife's dog, you know. And she had a mole on her chin."

"The dog?"

"No. My wife. Little beast! She bit me in the leg once."

"Your wife?"

"No. The dog. Good Lord!" said the Sausage Chappie.

Archie looked up and followed his gaze.

A couple of tables away, next to a sideboard on which the management
exposed for view the cold meats and puddings and pies mentioned in
volume two of the bill of fare ("Buffet Froid"), a man and a girl had
just seated themselves. The man was stout and middle-aged. He bulged
in practically every place in which a man can bulge, and his head was
almost entirely free from hair. The girl was young and pretty. Her eyes
were blue. Her hair was brown. She had a rather attractive little mole
on the left side of her chin.

"Good Lord!" said the Sausage Chappie.

"Now what?" said Archie.

"Who's that? Over at the table there?"

Archie, through long attendance at the Cosmopolis Grill, knew most of
the habitues by sight.

"That's a man named Gossett. James J. Gossett. He's a motion-picture
man. You must have seen his name around."

"I don't mean him. Who's the girl?"

"I've never seen her before."

"It's my wife!" said the Sausage Chappie.

"Your wife!"

"Yes!"

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure!"

"Well, well, well!" said Archie. "Many happy returns of the day!"

At the other table, the girl, unconscious of the drama which was about
to enter her life, was engrossed in conversation with the stout man. And
at this moment the stout man leaned forward and patted her on the cheek.

It was a paternal pat, the pat which a genial uncle might bestow on
a favourite niece, but it did not strike the Sausage Chappie in that
light. He had been advancing on the table at a fairly rapid pace, and
now, stirred to his depths, he bounded forward with a hoarse cry.

Archie was at some pains to explain to his father-in-law later that, if
the management left cold pies and things a