king man of fifty or
so, also in evening attire.

This latter wore a monocle in what Jones afterwards mentally called,
"his twisted face."

"Look at him!" cried the young man, "sitting in his blessed arm chair
and not dressed. Look at him!"

He lurched slightly as he spoke, and brought up at the table where he
hit the inkstand with the cane he was carrying, sending inkpot and pens
flying. Jones looked at him.

This was Hughie. Pillar of the Criterion bar, President of the Rag Tag
Club, baronet and detrimental--and all at twenty three.

"Leave it alone, Hughie," said Stark, going to the silver cigar box and
helping himself. "Less of that blessed cane, Hughie--why, Jollops, what
ails you?"

He stared at Jones as he lit a cigar. Jones looked at him.

This was Spencer Stark, late Captain in His Majesty's Black Hussars,
gambler, penniless, always well dressed, and always well fed--Terrible.
Just as beetles are beetles, whether dressed in tropical splendour or
the funereal black of the English type, so are detrimentals
detrimentals. Jones knew his men.

"I beg your pardon," said he, "did you mean that name for me?"

He rose as he spoke, and crossing to the bell rang it. They thought he
was speaking in jest and ringing for drinks; they laughed, and Hughie
began to yell, yell, and slash the table with his cane in time to what
he was yelling.

This beast, who was never happy unless smashing glasses, making a noise
or tormenting his neighbours, who had never been really sober for the
space of some five years, who had destroyed a fine estate, and broken
his mother's heart, seemed now endeavouring to break his wanghee cane on
the table.

The noise was terrific.

The door opened and calves appeared.

"Throw that ruffian out," said Jones.

"Out with him," cried Hughie, throwing away his cane at this joke. "Come
on, Stark, let's shove old Jollops out of doors."

He advanced to the merry attack, and Stark, livened up by the other,
closed in, receiving a blow on the midriff that seated him in the
fender.

The next moment Hughie found himself caught by a firm hand, that had
somehow managed to insert itself between the back of his collar and his
neck, gripping the collar.

Choking and crowing he was rushed out of the room and across the hall to
the front door, a running footman preceding him. The door was opened and
he was flung into the street.

The ejection of Stark was an easier matter. The hats and coats were