n he suddenly remembered the
fact he hurried off, fearful of losing his dinner, and St. Martin's in
the Fields indicated a quarter to seven as he entered Morley's Hotel.

At that time a little party of three persons were sitting down to a
table in one of the luxurious dining-rooms of the Trocadero. Victor
Nevill was the host, and his guests were Stephen Foster and his
daughter; later they were all going to see the production of a new
musical comedy.

Madge, as lovely as a dream in her lustrous, shimmering evening gown,
fell under the sway of the lights and the music, and was more like her
old self than she had been for months; the papers had been kept out of
her way, and she did not know that Jack had returned from India. Stephen
Foster was absorbed in the _menu_ and the wine-card, and Nevill, in the
highest of spirits, laughed and chatted incessantly. He was ignorant of
something that had occurred that very day, else his evening's pleasure
would surely have been spoiled.

To understand the incident, the reader must go back to the previous
night, or rather an early hour of the morning. For the last of the West
End restaurants were putting out their lights and closing their doors
when Jimmie Drexell, coming home from a "smoker" at the Langham Sketch
Club, ran across Bertie Raven in Piccadilly. It was a fortunate meeting.
The Honorable Bertie was with a couple of questionable companions, and
he was intoxicated and very noisy; so much so that he had attracted the
attention of a policeman, who was moving toward the group.

Jimmie, like a good Samaritan, promptly rescued his friend and took
him to his own chambers in the Albany, as he was obviously unfit to go
elsewhere. Bertie demurred at first, but his mood soon changed, and he
became pliant and sullen. He roused a little when he found himself
indoors, and demanded a drink. That being firmly refused, he muttered
some incoherent words, flung himself down on a big couch in Jimmie's
sitting-room, and lapsed into a drunken sleep.

Jimmie threw a rug over him, locked up the whisky, and went off to bed.
His first thought, when he woke about nine the next morning, was of
his guest. Hearing footsteps in the outer room, he hurriedly got into
dressing-gown and slippers and opened the communicating door. He was not
prepared for what he saw. Bertie stood by the window, with the dull gray
light on his haggard face and disordered hair, his crushed shirt-front
and collar. A revolver