The prophecy came true quicker than Gurdon had expected, for out of the
gloom there presently emerged the yellow face of Mark Fenwick. He came in
with a furtive air, like some mean thief who is about to do a shabby
action. He was palpably looking for something. He made a gesture of
disappointment when he saw that the table where he had dined was now
stripped of everything except the flowers. He did not seem to see the
other two men there at all. Venner took the box from his companion's
hand, and advanced to Fenwick's side.

"I think you have lost something, sir," he said coolly. "Permit me to
restore your property to you."

The millionaire gave a kind of howl as he looked at Venner. The noise he
made was like that of a child suffering from toothache. He fairly
grovelled at Venner's feet, but as far as the latter's expression was
concerned, the two might have met for the first time. Just for a moment
Fenwick stood there, mopping his yellow face, himself a picture of abject
misery and despair.

"Well?" Venner said sharply. "Is this little box yours, or not?"

"Oh, yes, oh yes," Fenwick whined. "You know that perfectly well--I
mean, you must recognise--oh, I don't know what I mean. The fact is,
I am really ill to-night. I hardly know what I am doing. Thank you,
very much."

Fenwick snatched the box from Venner's fingers, and made hastily
for the door.

"I believe we are allowed to smoke in here after ten," Gurdon said. "If