"Any--dibs?" inquired Mr. Stiles, slapping a pocket which failed to ring
in response.

"She's comfortable," replied the other, awkwardly. "Got a little
stationer's shop in the town; steady, old-fashioned business. She's
chapel, and very strict."

"Just what you want," remarked Mr. Stiles, placing his glass on the
table. "What d'ye say to a stroll?"

Mr. Burton assented, and, having replaced the black bottle in the
cupboard, led the way along the cliffs toward the town some half-mile
distant, Mr. Stiles beguiling the way by narrating his adventures since
they had last met. A certain swagger and richness of deportment were
explained by his statement that he had been on the stage.

"Only walking on," he said, with a shake of his head. "The only speaking
part I ever had was a cough. You ought to ha' heard that cough, George!"

Mr. Burton politely voiced his regrets and watched him anxiously. Mr.
Stiles, shaking his head over a somewhat unsuccessful career, was making
a bee-line for the Cock and Flowerpot.

"Just for a small soda," he explained, and, once inside, changed his mind
and had whisky instead. Mr. Burton, sacrificing principle to friendship,
had one with him. The bar more than fulfilled Mr. Stiles's ideas as to
its cosiness, and within the space of ten minutes he was on excellent
terms with the regular clients. Into the little, old-world bar, with its
loud-ticking clock, its Windsor-chairs, and its cracked jug full of