"One more round first," insisted Cooley with prompt vehemence. "Let's
finish with our first toast again. Can't drink that too often."

This proposition was received with warmest approval, and they drank
standing. "Brightest and best!" shouted Mr. Pedlow.

"Queen! What she is!" exclaimed Cooley.

_"Ma belle Marquise!"_ whispered Mellin tenderly, as the rim touched his
lips.

A small, keen-faced man, whose steady gray eyes were shielded by
tortoise-rimmed spectacles, had come into the room and now stood quietly
at the bar, sipping a glass of Vichy. He was sharply observant of the
party as it broke up, Pedlow and Sneyd preceding the younger men to
the corridor, and, as the latter turned to follow, the stranger stepped
quickly forward, speaking Cooley's name.

"What's the matter?"

"Perhaps you don't remember me. My name's Cornish. I'm a newspaper man,
a correspondent." (He named a New York paper.) "I'm down here to get
a Vatican story. I knew your father for a number of years before his
death, and I think I may claim that he was a friend of mine."

"That's good," said the youth cordially. "If I hadn't a fine start
already, and wasn't in a hurry to dress, we'd have another."

"You were pointed out to me in Paris," continued Cornish. "I found
where you were staying and called on you the next day, but you had just