incognito had been unavailing, for he had stayed at the hotel several
times--as he remembered with an odd little pang--with Lucille, and
the head-waiter, with a low bow, ushered them to their table. Mr.
Skinner saw the preparations for their repast, the oysters, the
cocktails in tall glasses, the magnum of champagne in ice, and
chuckled. To take supper with a duke was a novelty to him, but he
was not shy. He sat down and tucked his serviette into his
waistcoat, raised his glass, and suddenly set it down again.

"The boss!" he exclaimed in amazement.

Mr. Sabin turned his head in the direction which his companion had
indicated. Coming hastily across the room towards them, already
out of breath as though with much hurrying, was a thick-set, powerful
man, with the brutal face and coarse lips of a prizefighter; a beard
cropped so short as to seem the growth of a few days only covered
his chin, and his moustache, treated in the same way, was not thick
enough to conceal a cruel mouth. He was carefully enough dressed,
and a great diamond flashed from his tie. There was a red mark
round his forehead where his hat had been, and the perspiration was
streaming from his forehead. He strode without hesitation to the
table where Mr. Sabin and his guest were sitting, and without even
a glance at the former turned upon his myrmidon.

"Where's that report?" he cried roughly. "Where is it?"

Mr. Skinner seemed to have shrunk into a smaller man. He pointed
across the table.

"I've given it to him," he said. "What's wrong, boss?"