at once to his house in Upper Berkeley Street. He had only been in London two or three hours, having crossed from Calais that afternoon.
He washed when he had arrived at the famous club, and then went up-stairs to the grill-room for some supper. It was the hour when the Sheridan is full of the upper Bohemian world. Great actors and musicians, a judge on his way through town from one watering-place to another, — for it was now the long vacation, — a good many well-known journalists, all sorts and conditions of men. All were eminent in their work, for that was a condition of membership.
Llwellyn was welcomed on all sides, though men noticed that he seemed preoccupied. His healthy appearance was commented on, his face browned, as was supposed, by the sun of the Riviera, his general fitness of manner and carriage.
He took supper by himself at a small table, choosing the menu with his usual extreme care, and more than once summoning the head waiter to conference. Although he kept glancing at his watch, as if expecting an arrival, he made a good meal, mixing his own salad of crisp white lettuce with deliberation.
He had sent a page early on his arrival to find out if Mr. Constantine Schuabe was in the club.
He was standing at the desk in the middle of the room, paying his bill, when the iltwing-doors were pushed open and Schuabe entered. He was in evening dress and carried a light overcoat on his arm.
Llwellyn gathered up his change and went to meet him. Had there been an attentive observer to mark the meeting of the two men he would perhaps have been a little surprised at the fashion of it.
Although Llwellyn was a six-months' stranger to London, and the meeting between the two men was
