came tripping out once more, the others, too--bowing,
smiling--recipients of flowers. John Steele's hand had gripped his knee
tightly; he was no longer aware of the stage, the people, even Jocelyn
Wray. The girl's attention had again centered on the actors; she with
the others had been oblivious to the glint of his eyes, the hard, set
expression of his features.

"Old friend, don't you know," went on the voice of Sir Charles when this
second tumult of applause had subsided. "Had one rare adventure
together. One of the kind that cements a man to you."

As he spoke, the light in the theater flared up; John Steele, no longer
hesitating, uncertain, rose; his face had regained its composure. He
regarded the slender, aristocratic figure of the nobleman in the
background; faultlessly dressed, Lord Ronsdale carried himself with his
habitual languid air of assurance. The two bowed; the stony glance of
the lord met the impassive one of the man. Then a puzzled look came into
the nobleman's eyes; he gazed at Steele more closely; his glance
cleared.

"Thought for an instant I'd seen you somewhere before, b'Jove!" he
drawled in his metallic tone. "But, of course, I haven't. Never forget a
face, don't you know."

"I may not say so much, may not have the diplomat's gift of always
remembering people to the extent your lordship possesses it, but I am
equally certain I have never before enjoyed the honor of being presented
to your lordship!" said John Steele. The words were punctiliously
spoken, his accents as cold as the other's. An infinitesimal trace of
constraint seemed to have crept into the box; Steele turned and holding