"Oh, yes," said Drouet, now affecting not to see. "Who is he?"
"That's Jules Wallace, the spiritualist."
Drouet followed him with his eyes, much interested.
"Doesn't look much like a man who sees spirits, does he?" said Drouet.
"Oh, I don't know," returned Hurstwood. "He's got the money, all right," and a little twinkle passed over his eyes.
"I don't go much on those things, do you?" asked Drouet.
"Well, you never can tell," said Hurstwood. "There may be something to it. I wouldn't bother about it myself, though. By the way," he added, "are you going anywhere to-night?"
"'The Hole in the Ground,'" said Drouet, mentioning the popular farce of the time.
"Well, you'd better be going. It's half after eight already," and he drew out his watch.
The crowd was already thinning out considerably—some bound for the theatres, some to their clubs, and some to that most fascinating of all the pleasures—for the type of man there represented, at least—the ladies.
"Yes, I will," said Drouet.
"Come around after the show. I have something I want to show you," said Hurstwood.
"Sure," said Drouet, elated.
"You haven't anything on hand for the night, have you?" added Hurstwood.
"Not a thing."
"Well, come round, then."
"I struck a little peach coming in on the train Friday," remarked Drouet, by way of parting. "By George, that's so, I must go and call on her before I go away."
"Oh, never mind her," Hurstwood remarked.
