the incident created by the fat _chevalier d'industrie_; and at six
o'clock, or thereabouts, let himself out of his room, dressed for the
evening, a light rain-coat over one arm, in the other hand a cane,--the
drizzle having ceased.

A stolid British lift lifted him down to the ground floor of the
establishment in something short of five minutes. Pausing in the office
long enough to settle his bill and leave instructions to have his luggage
conveyed to the boat-train, he received with entire equanimity the affable
benediction of the clerk, in whose eyes he still figured as that radiant
creature, an American millionaire; and passed on to the lobby, where he
surrendered hat, coat and stick to the cloak-room attendant, ere entering
the dining-room.

The hour was a trifle early for a London dinner, the handsome room but
moderately filled with patrons. Kirkwood absorbed the fact unconsciously
and without displeasure; the earlier, the better: he was determined to
consume his last civilized meal (as he chose to consider it) at his serene
leisure, to live fully his ebbing moments in the world to which he was
born, to drink to its cloying dregs one ultimate draught of luxury.

A benignant waiter bowed him into a chair by a corner table in
juxtaposition with an open window, through which, swaying imperceptibly the
closed hangings, were wafted gentle gusts of the London evening's sweet,
damp breath.

Kirkwood settled himself with an inaudible sigh of pleasure. He was dining,
for the last time in Heaven knew how long, in a first-class restaurant.

With a deferential flourish the waiter brought him the menu-card. He had