the liberty of inviting Lord Denton and Mr. Karlbeck, two friends of mine, to dine with us tonight, and as Lord Denton is in mourning, he has asked that I have dinner in my apartment. I hope that is all right?" "Certainly," assented Edestone. "Lord Denton, you say? I don't think I have ever met him, have I? And isn't he just a little supersensitive to raise a scruple of that sort? It seems to me that practically everybody over here is in mourning. Fact is, I don't feel like going to a ball myself." His face saddened, as he thought of the many good fellows he had met on former visits to London who now lay underneath the sod of Northern France and Belgium. But by this time they were at the Britz and the proprietor was bowing them inside, apparently so accustomed to receiving men of distinction with military escort that he did not even notice the lines of trim cavalrymen which drew themselves up on either side of his entrance. "Will you gentlemen dine in the public restaurant?" asked Captain Bright, stepping up to Edestone. "No," Rebener took it upon himself to answer. "We are going to have a little _partie carree_ in my apartment." "In that case," said the Captain, "I regret that I shall have to station men on that floor." Rebener frowned as if he were about to voice a protest, but at that moment the proprietor called him over to consult with him in regard to the menu. For a moment or two they discussed it calmly enough; then as the proprietor began to gesticulate and wax vehement, Rebener spoke over his shoulder to his guest. "Excuse me, Jack," he said, "but M. Bombiadi insists that I hold a council of war with him over the selection of the wines. He declines to accept the responsibility with such a distinguished personage as you seem to have become." Then lowering his voice, he added with a wink: "He is evidently impressed with that military escort of yours, for all that he pretended not to notice it. I won't be away a minute." He was hurried by the proprietor through the office and into one of the small duplex apartments on the main floor. Passing through the pantry and dining-room of the apartment out into the little private hall with its street door on Piccadilly, and up a short flight of marble steps with an iron railing, he was ushered into a handsomely furnished little parlour. There, standing in front of the mantelpiece was a man who did not look like an Englishman, but more like a German Jew. He was perfectly bald