“Did he drop it?” asked Mellin innocently.
Mr. Pedlow leaned forward and struck the young man's knee a resounding blow with the palm of his hand.
“He was nominated, wasn't he?”
“Time to dress,” announced Mr. Sneyd, looking at his watch.
“One more round first,” insisted Cooley with prompt vehemence. “Let's finish with our first toast again. Can't drink that too often.”
This proposition was received with warmest approval, and they drank standing. “Brightest and best!” shouted Mr. Pedlow.
“Queen! What she is!” exclaimed Cooley.
“Ma belle Marquise!” whispered Mellin tenderly, as the rim touched his lips.
A small, keen-faced man, whose steady gray eyes were shielded by tortoise-rimmed spectacles, had come into the room and now stood quietly at the bar, sipping a glass of Vichy. He was sharply observant of the party as it broke up, Pedlow and Sneyd preceding the younger men to the corridor, and, as the latter turned to follow, the stranger stepped quickly forward, speaking Cooley's name.
“What's the matter?”