Clifford withdrew his eyes in a hurry, amid a roar of laughter from the others. He was glad when Braith’s entrance caused a diversion.
“Hullo, Don Juan! I see you, Lothario! Drinking again?”
Braith took it all as a matter of course, but this time failed to return as good as they gave. He took a seat beside Gethryn and said in a low tone:
“I’ve just come from your house. There’s a letter from the Salon in your box.”
Gethryn set down his wine untasted and reached for his hat.
“What’s the matter, Reggy? Has Lisette gone back on you?” asked Clifford, tenderly.
“It’s the Salon,” said Braith, as Gethryn went out with a hasty “Good night.”
“Poor Reggy, how hard he takes it!” sighed Clifford.
Gethryn hurried along the familiar streets with his heart in his boots sometimes, and sometimes in his mouth.
In his box was a letter and a note addressed in pencil. He snatched them both, and lighting a candle, mounted the stairs, unlocked his door and sank breathless upon the lounge. He tore open the first envelope. A bit of paper fell out. It was from Braith and said: