the words were fairly out of his mouth a footfall sounded in the corridor,
a hand was placed upon the shoulder of the page, gently but with decision
swinging him out of the way, and a man stepped into the room.

"Mr. Brentwick!" Kirkwood almost shouted, jumping forward to seize his
visitor's hand.

"My dear boy!" replied the latter. "I'm delighted to see you. 'Got your
note not an hour ago, and came at once--you see!"

"It was mighty good of you. Sit down, please. Here are cigars.... Why, a
moment ago I was the most miserable and lonely mortal on the footstool!"

"I can fancy." The elder man looked up, smiling at Kirkwood from the depths
of his arm-chair, as the latter stood above him, resting an elbow on
the mantel. "The management knows me," he offered explanation of his
unceremonious appearance; "so I took the liberty of following on the heels
of the bellhop, dear boy. And how are you? Why are you in London, enjoying
our abominable spring weather? And why the anxious undertone I detected in
your note?"

He continued to stare curiously into Kirkwood's face. At a glance, this
Mr. Brentwick was a man of tallish figure and rather slender; with a
countenance thin and flushed a sensitive pink, out of which his eyes shone,
keen, alert, humorous, and a trace wistful behind his glasses. His years
were indeterminate; with the aspect of fifty, the spirit and the verve of
thirty assorted oddly. But his hands were old, delicate, fine and fragile;
and the lips beneath the drooping white mustache at times trembled, almost
imperceptibly, with the generous sentiments that come with mellow age. He
held his back straight and his head with an air--an air that was not a