It was the memorable Tuesday dinner, given in the first place for Dacre
Wynne, as a sort of send off before he left for Cairo. In the second
Merriton intended to break it gently to the other chaps that he was
shortly to become a Benedict.

Lester Stark and Tony West, very loyal and proven friends of Nigel
Merriton, had arrived the evening before. Dacre Wynne was coming down by
the seven o'clock train, Dicky Fordyce, Reginald Lefroy--both fellow
officers of Merriton's regiment, and home on leave from India--and mild
old Dr. Bartholomew, whom everyone respected and few did not love, and
who was in attendance at most of the bachelor spreads in London and out
of it, as being a dry old body with a wit as fine as a rapier-thrust,
and a fund of delicate, subtle humour, made up the little party.

The solemn front door bell of Merriton Towers clanged, and Borkins, very
pompous and elegant, flung wide the door. Merriton saw Wynne's big,
broad-shouldered figure swathed in the black evening cloak which he
affected upon such occasions, and which became him mightily, and with an
opera hat set at the correct angle upon his closely-clipped dark hair,
step into the lighted hallway, and begin taking off his gloves.

Tony West's raspy voice chimed out a welcome, as Merriton went forward,
his hand outstretched.

"Hello, old man!" said Tony. "How goes it? Lookin' a bit white about the
gills, aren't you, eh?... Whew! Merriton, old chap, that's my ribs, if
you don't mind. I've no penchant for your bayonet-like elbow to go
prodding into 'em!"