reforming hand of the last-named was active in the kitchen. He
arrived before the departure of the temporary aide, and had not
been half-an-hour in the house before there came an outbreak which
might easily have ended in the second appearance of Narcisse at the
bar of justice, as homicide, this time to be dealt with by a
prosaic British jury, which would probably have doomed him to the
halter. Sir John listened over the balusters to the shrieks and
howls of his recovered treasure, and wisely decided to lunch at his
club. But the club lunch, admirable as it was, seemed flat and
unappetising after the dainty yet simple dishes he had recently
tasted; and the following day he set forth to search for one of
those Italian restaurants, of which he had heard vague reports.
Certainly the repast would not be the same as at the "Laurestinas,"
but it might serve for once. Alas! Sir John did not find the right
place, for there are "right places" amongst the Italian restaurants
of London. He beat a hasty retreat from the first he entered, when
the officious proprietor assured him that he would serve up a
dejeuner in the best French style. At the second he chose a dish
with an Italian name, but the name was the only Italian thing about
it. The experiment had failed. It seemed as if Italian
restaurateurs were sworn not to cook Italian dishes, and the next
day he went to do as best he could at the club.

But before he reached the club door he recalled how, many years
ago, he and other young bloods used to go for chops to Morton's, a
queer little house at the back of St. James' Street, and towards
Morton's he now turned his steps. As he entered it, it seemed as
if it was only yesterday that he was there. He beheld the waiter,
with mouth all awry, through calling down the tube. The same old
mahogany partitions to the boxes, and the same horse-hair benches.