all his efforts, was hoarse and shaky. The words came out with a jerk—harsh, staccato.
"What's wrong, Polsover?"
Polsover glanced around half fearfully. His face was still the colour of chalk. He leaned across the table, and the heads of the four men were close together.
"Mannister is in London," he whispered. "I have seen him. I believe that he is coming here."
Something unique in the way of oaths broke from the lips of the man in the gold-rimmed spectacles, who presided over the little gathering. The other two simply stared. It was incredible, astounding! They neglected for the first few moments even to ask him the obvious questions. Then the coming of a waiter imposed upon them the ghastly necessity of concealing their terror. Conversation of some sort was necessary. Polsover spoke of wine, and ordered the magnum which stood in the ice pail by their side to be immediately opened. Never were glasses raised to the lips and drained more eagerly. Polsover, who had had time to realize this thing, was now the most self-possessed of the party.
"I went into the bar at the Savoy," he explained, "to have a Dubonnet before coming across. He was there, in travelling clothes, just arrived I should think. I nearly went through the floor,"
"What did he say? Did he speak to you?" Traske asked.
"Just as though we had parted yesterday," Polsover declared. "I—I had a drink with him."
The thing was driven home to them now beyond a doubt. Polsover had stood before the bar and drank with him. No one could do that with a ghost.
"He asked—after everybody," Polsover continued, "just as though he had been away for a week-end. He said—when he had changed—that he was coming here."
Hambledon drank his third glass of champagne, and made a brave attempt to break through the stupefaction which seemed to have clouded the intellects of all of them. Hambledon was the man in the gold-rimmed spectacles, who seemed to play the host
"Look here," he said, "we're not a pack of babies, to be scared to death just because one man's come back from the dead. Mannister can't eat us. We've played it low down against him, but we're inside the law. He can't know much. If Sinclair and he have ever come face to face, there would be more shooting than talking done. I doubt if he knows anything. Remember—if he comes he is welcome. Not too much surprise, mind—and no explanations to-night."
"About the time?" Traske asked hoarsely,
"Silence!" Hambledon declared.
Then they heard Luigi's little cry of surprise merged into one of welcome, and the thunderbolt fell. Tall and lean, with bronzed face and clear, sunburnt skin, Mannister, in his trim evening clothes, and unchanging air of complete self-composure, seemed, as he slowly advanced towards them, a perfectly natural part of the place and its surroundings. Only these four men who had known him intimately could detect some slight but significant change in the expression of the man who came so calmly forward to greet them.
"Mannister, by all that's wonderful!" Hambledon exclaimed, rising and holding out both his hands.
"Mannister!" the others echoed, and rose to their feet.
There was a moment's pause of breathless expectancy. They felt that the next few seconds would decide the momentous question as to whether this man had come as friend or enemy. He himself seemed for some reason inclined to prolong the period of uncertainty. He stood quite still for an appreciable space of time, looking at the four men who had risen to their feet prepared to receive him with every appearance of good fellowship, and yet, notwithstanding all their efforts, showing something of the nervousness which they all felt, in their faces and manners. With a little laugh, Mannister threw his coat to the cloak-room attendant who had followed him in, and leisurely drawing off his gloves, extended his hand to Hambledon.
"Can you make room for an unexpected visitor?" he asked. "It's like old times to see a magnum of Pomeroy. Hambledon, you haven't changed a bit. Traske, you are looking fit as ever. Jacobs, how are you? Where are you all with your dinner? I'll chip in if I may."
The key-note of their conversation was struck. Their welcome was more than effusive, it was almost uproarious. His glass was filled, and a place was hastily laid for him. There was no lack of conversation. He had been away for more than a year. There were a hundred people to ask after, endless little pieces of news and gossip to retail to him. But the greater things they left alone. No mention was made of the reason of his sudden disappearance from the country, or of the man in search of whom he had gone. Nor did they speak of certain transactions which had taken place during his absence, but for which they knew very well that a day of reckoning must come. There were certain names, too, which Mannister left alone until dinner was almost over. Then he asked after them, one by one, and it seemed to the four men who answered, that there was something sinister in these inquiries, apparently so casual, and yet embracing just those men and no others.
"Colin Stevens is not here to-night, I see," Mannister began.
"He is over in Paris for a few days," Hambledon answered.
Mannister nodded.
"And Rundermere, Phil Rundermere?"
"Phil's about as usual," Hambledon answered, "but a little down on his luck He's had a very bad season's racing."
"John Dykes?"
"He may be in any moment," Traske declared, a little uneasily. "He doesn't often dine with us. He's had gout badly, and he's trying a diet cure."
Hambledon drank a glass of wine during the momentary silence which followed. He felt the perspiration breaking out upon his forehead. These names and no others! There must be a purpose in it. Seven of the eight, including those who were present, had already been inquired for. There was only one left. If he should ask for her and no one else, they would know that it was war. They would know that their danger was no fancied one.
"And last, but not least," Mannister asked, looking intently into the contents of his glass, "la belle Sophy, Mrs. De la Mere, unless she has changed her name?"
"She is dining here to-night," Hambledon answered. "She is sitting immediately behind you."
Mannister smiled.
"Presently," he said, "I must pay my respects to her. It is very interesting to hear about so many old friends."
Then he was silent for several moments, still apparently watching the bubbles rise in his champagne glass, and the four men stole glances one at the other. He had asked after them all, all the eight! They could not doubt any longer but that it was war!
Coffee and liqueurs were set before them. Already half the diners in the place had left. Mannister glanced at the clock.
"Half-past nine," he said. "Remember that I have been away from London a year. What does one do now? Have we any——?"
He glanced meaningly at Hambledon, who shook his head.
"No, no!" he said. "There is nothing of that sort on just now. We might go to a music-hall for an hour, and round to Cumberland Mansions afterwards, all of us except Ben, that is. Ben is a reformed character. In fact this is something in the way of a farewell dinner. Ben is going to be married next month to somebody very young and very rich."
Traske was obviously
