THE GUEST


A young man came into an ornate restaurant at eight o'clock in
London.

He was alone, but two places had been laid at the table which was
reserved for him. He had chosen the dinner very carefully, by letter
a week before.

A waiter asked him about the other guest.

"You probably won't see him till the coffee comes," the young man
told him; so he was served alone.

Those at adjacent tables might have noticed the young man continually
addressing the empty chair and carrying on a monologue with it
throughout his elaborate dinner.

"I think you knew my father," he said to it over the soup.

"I sent for you this evening," he continued, "because I want you to
do me a good turn; in fact I must insist on it."

There was nothing eccentric about the man except for this habit of
addressing an empty chair, certainly he was eating as good a dinner
as any sane man could wish for.

After the Burgundy had been served he became more voluble in his