of the frequenters of costly hotels, the world to which he was accustomed, had overtaken him. Moreover, he felt hungry. Hence he had descended to the famous restaurant, whose wide windows were flung open to the illuminated majesty of the Thames Embankment. The pale cream room was nearly full of expensive women, and expending men, and silver-chained waiters whose skilled, noiseless, inhuman attentions were remunerated at the rate of about four-pence a minute. Music, the midnight food of love, floated scarce heard through the tinted atmosphere. It was the best imitation of Roman luxury that London could offer, and after Selwood Terrace and the rackety palace of no gratuities, Priam Farll enjoyed it as one enjoys home after strange climes.
Next to his table was an empty table, set for two, to which were presently conducted, with due state, a young man, and a magnificent woman whose youth was slipping off her polished shoulders like a cloak. Priam Farll then overheard the following conversation:--
Man: Well, what are you going to have?
Woman: But look here, little Charlie, you can't possibly afford to pay for this!
Man: Never said I could. It's the paper that pays. So go ahead.
Woman: Is Lord Nasing so keen as all that?
Man: It isn't Lord Nasing. It's our brand new editor specially imported from Chicago.
Woman: Will he last?
Man: He'll last a hundred nights, say as long as the run of your piece. Then he'll get six months' screw and the boot.
Woman: How much is six months' screw?
Man: Three thousand.
Woman: Well, I can hardly earn that myself.
Man: Neither can I. But then you see we weren't born in Chicago.
Woman: I've been offered a thousand dollars a week to go there, anyhow.
Man: Why didn't you tell me that for the interview? I've spent two entire entr'actes in trying to get something interesting out of you, and there you go and keep a thing like that up your sleeve. It's not fair to an old and faithful admirer. I shall stick it in. Poulet chasseur?
Woman: Oh no! Couldn't dream of it. Didn't you know I was dieting? Nothing saucy. No sugar. No bread. No tea. Thanks to that I've lost nearly a stone in six months. You know I was getting enormous.
Man: Let me put that in, eh?
Woman: Just try, and see what happens to you!
Man: Well, shall we say a lettuce salad, and a Perrier and soda? I'm dieting, too.
Waiter: Lettuce salad, and a Perrier and soda? Yes, sir.
Woman: You aren't very gay.
Man: Gay! You don't know all the yearnings of my soul. Don't imagine that because I'm a special of the Record I haven't got a soul.
Woman: I suppose you've been reading that book, Omar Khayyam, that every one's talking about. Isn't that what it's called?
Man: Has Omar Khayyam reached the theatrical world? Well, there's no doubt the earth does move, after all.
Woman: A little more soda, please. And just a trifle less impudence. What book ought one to be reading, then?
Man: Socialism's the thing just now. Read Wells on Socialism. It'll be all over the theatrical world in a few years' time.
Woman: No fear! I can't bear Wells. He's always stirring up the dregs. I don't mind froth, but I do draw the line at dregs. What's the band playing? What have you been doing to-day? Is this lettuce? No, no! No bread. Didn't you hear me tell you?
Man: I've been busy with the Priam Farll affair.
Woman: Priam Farll?
Man: Yes. Painter. You know.
Woman: Oh yes. Him! I saw it on the posters. He's dead, it seems. Anything mysterious?
Man: You bet! Very odd! Frightfully rich, you know! Yet he died in a wretched hovel of a place down off the Fulham Road. And his valet's disappeared. We had the first news of the death, through our arrangement with all the registrars' clerks in London. By the bye, don't give that away--it's our speciality. Nasing sent me off at once to write up the story.
Woman: Story?
Man: The particulars. We always call it a story in Fleet Street.
Woman: What a good name! Well, did you find out anything interesting?
Man: Not very much. I saw his cousin, Duncan Farll, a money-lending lawyer in Clement's Lane--he only heard of it because we telephoned to him. But the fellow would scarcely tell me anything at all.
Woman: Really! I do hope there's something terrible.
Man: Why?
Woman: So that I can go to the inquest or the police court or whatever it is. That's why I always keep friendly with magistrates. It's so frightfully thrilling, sitting on the bench with them.
Man: There won't be any inquest. But there's something queer in it. You see, Priam Farll was never in England. Always abroad; at those foreign hotels, wandering up and down.
Woman (after a pause): I know.
Man: What do you know?
Woman: Will you promise not to chatter?
Man: Yes.
Woman: I met him once at an hotel at Ostend. He--well, he wanted most tremendously to paint my portrait. But I wouldn't let him.
Man: Why not?
Woman: If you knew what sort of man he was you wouldn't ask.
Man: Oh! But look here, I say! You must let me use that in my story. Tell me all about it.
Woman: Not for worlds.
Man: He--he made up to you?
Woman: Rather!
Priam Farll (to himself): What a barefaced lie! Never was at Ostend in my life.
Man: Can't I use it if I don't print your name--just say a distinguished actress.
Woman: Oh yes, you can do that. You might say, of the musical comedy stage.
Man: I will. I'll run something together. Trust me. Thanks awfully.
At this point a young and emaciated priest passed up the room.
Woman: Oh! Father Luke, is that you? Do come and sit here and be
