obviously prearranged, neither of the two men smiled as they shook hands. Both were expectant of each other, pale, almost with some apprehension, it might have been fancied; and though the meeting seemed a relief to each, there was little human kindliness in it.
"Come down to the Hotel," said Schuabe; "we can't possibly say anything here, every room is full."
They walked out of the club together, two figures of noticeable distinction, very obviously belonging to the ruling classes of England. The millionaire's pale and beautiful face was worn and lined.
"Schuabe seems a bit done up," one man in the hall said to another as the two friends passed through.
"Heat, I suppose," answered his companion. "Hand- some chap, though; doesn't seem to care for anything worth having, only books and politics and that. Wish I'd his money."
"So do I. But give me Bob Llwellyn of these two. Thoroughly decent sort he is. Invented two new omelettes and a white soup. Forgets all about his thing-um-bobs — old Egyptian or something — they knighted him for directly he leaves the Museum."
"That's the sort," answered a third man who had joined them. "I don't object to a Johnny having a brain, and knowing a devil of a lot, if he'll only jolly well keep it to himself. Bob does that. I'm going up-stairs to have a turn at poker. You fellows coming?"
Schuabe and Llwellyn walked to the Cecil, no great distance, saying little by the way, and presently they were in the millionaire's great room, with its spacious view over the river.
The place was beautifully cool and full of flowers. A great block of ice rose from a copper bowl placed on a pedestal. The carpet had been covered with light matting of rice straw, brought from Rawal-pindi. All the
