“What are you doing here?” asked Rowton. “I came up for a holiday, sir. I hope to return to my duties to-morrow night.” “See you do. I don’t wish my servants to come to town without my special permission.” Rowton spoke in his chuffiest and most forbidding tones. Jacob’s face flushed. Rowton ran quickly upstairs to his room. It was at the top of the house. On the landing outside a ladder was placed which communicated with a skylight. Rowton packed a few things in a black bag, and a moment afterwards, had anyone looked, might have been seen crossing the leads of the house to another at some distance off. Jacob did not catch sight of Rowton again that day, although he kicked his heels for a long time at the door of the hotel. Punctually at the appointed hour the men met at the smoking club in Chelsea. Their full number was present. Long John looked at his best. At such moments he could be delightful. He was gracious now, unbending; there was not a shadow of care on his brow; his great eyes glowed with the softest and sweetest expression, his lips unbent in genial smiles. There are times when even men of the Silver School can relax, and, to all appearance, forget their cares. The present seemed to be one. “Welcome back,” said Long John to Rowton. He went down the room to meet his guest, shaking hands with him warmly. “You know the condition on which I have come,” answered Rowton. “Yes,” replied Long John, “but we won’t discuss unpleasantnesses until after supper. Now, men, let us gather round and enjoy ourselves.” The men sat round a table and began to smoke and drink. The wine was of the best. Under its influence they all soon became convivial and merry. Even Rowton lost his sense of depression; he filled his glass several times. Soon toasts of different kinds were proposed. The men talked in metaphor, and slang terms were freely used. “To the success of our next meeting,” said Long John, rising from his seat, and raising a glassful of wine high into the air drained it off at a bumper. “To a short life and a merry one,” said Rowton, rising also in his turn. “To the sale of the black diamond,” cried Scrivener. Scrivener was seated next to Rowton. At this moment Long John gave him an almost imperceptible signal. Taking up a wine bottle which stood near he filled Rowton’s glass to the brim. “To the sale of the black diamond,” he repeated. All the men, in a spirit of high bravado, drained off their glasses. A moment later they sat down. Other toasts followed. The party grew wilder and more merry. Each man capped his neighbour’s story. The room was clouded with smoke, and echoed from end to end with the sound of boisterous mirth. Suddenly, in the midst of a very wild and daring tale, Rowton staggered to his feet. He made a step or two forward in the chief’s direction. “You scoundrel, you have poisoned me!” he cried. CHAPTER XXXV. WAGES.