Hardly five minutes after he had interrupted his guest in her call to
the police, Jim Logan was inquiring of the hall porter whether Mr.
Fred Fortescue had come in that evening.

"He came, sir, but has gone out again," replied the man, thinking that
the immaculate Mr. Logan--one of the best-dressed, best-groomed
members of the New Cosmopolitan--appeared to be feeling the heat
severely.

"Jove, I'm sorry to hear that," and Logan's expression confirmed his
words. "I wanted to see him badly. Let me think. Who else is here?
What about Mr. Pindar?"

"Hasn't been in, sir, for weeks," was the reply.

"Gee!" muttered Logan. He seemed worried, and in the brilliant light
of the fine hall--white-panelled, and hung with clever caricatures of
well-known men--his face was pale and even drawn. He looked, it
occurred to the hall porter (a man of imagination), rather like a
caricature of himself, not so well coloured as those on the walls.
Evidently conning the names of friends who might be useful in an
emergency, Logan's eyes were fixed on the stairway, as if thence
inspiration or salvation might come. He had the air of having sent his
astral body hastily upstairs to reconnoitre the reading and smoking
room, but at that minute Peter Rolls, Jr., appeared on the landing,
and Logan and his astral body joined forces again.

"Hello, Rolls!" he called out. "You're just the man I want. Will you
do me a great favour in a big hurry?"

Petro, whose inmost self had also been absent on some errand, came to
earth again with a slight start. "Hello!" he echoed, hastening his
steps.

He did not care much for Logan, who had been a classmate of his at
college, and whose acquaintance he had not cultivated since. Still he
had nothing against the fellow except that he was a "dude" and
something of an ass, whose outlook on life was so different from
Petro's that friendship was impossible. They met occasionally at the
New Cosmopolitan Club, of which they had both been members for some
years, and at houses where their different "sets" touched distantly.
If they talked at all, they talked of old times, but each bored the
other. Petro, however, could never bear to refuse any one a favour,
even if granting it were an uncongenial task. This peculiarity was
constitutional and too well known for his comfort.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked in a tone polite, but void of
personal interest.

"To come home with me quick and get me out of a horrid s