"I'm feeling afraid, if that's anything," Harvey Grimm confessed, raising his glass. "There was a woman in it, of course--and God knows I was careful!--a fierce, strong young Jewess. If she gets her grandfather by the throat, she'll wring the truth out of him." Cresswell rose to his feet. "It will do you good to eat, my friend," he suggested. "I find you exciting, vibrating, stimulating, but you are wearing yourself out." Harvey Grimm sat with tightly clenched fists. "I'm afraid to go in the restaurant," he said. "Do you notice how that man at the bar is staring, Cresswell? Who's he?" "Don't be a silly ass!" his companion exclaimed. "That's Greaves, the London correspondent of the _New York Trombone_. He'd be all over our story if he knew it. Come along. Pull yourself together, man ... upright!" Harvey Grimm did his best. He walked into the restaurant with almost his usual airy _bonhomme_. An acquaintance stopped the two men. "Wouldn't look at me in Fitz's, Grimm," he complained. "Getting proud, old chap?" "Sorry," Harvey Grimm replied. "I saw your back afterwards. I was looking at a man over your shoulder." They seated themselves at their usual table. Another chance acquaintance paused to speak to them. "Thought you'd given up this place, Grimm. Saw you at the Piccadilly on Thursday." "I like a change sometimes," the latter observed. "How's the new play going?" "Capitally, thanks!" The actor passed on. Harvey Grimm glanced at a sheet of paper which he brought out from his pocket. "Yes," he murmured, "I was at the Piccadilly on Thursday. Nothing like being thorough in these things, Stephen. My alibi was pretty successful, eh?" "Mean to say you get a chap to go about when you're in hiding, and establish alibis for you?" the poet asked wonderingly. "That's exactly the idea," Harvey Grimm agreed, "and to tell you the truth, if I hadn't a fit of nerves on me I should say that my alibis would take a little upsetting." They ordered luncheon and a bottle of wine, but for some reason or other the old spirit was lacking. They missed Aaron Rodd and speculated as to the cause of his absence. Cresswell, too, seemed to have inherited a new seriousness with his unaccustomed attire. It was their mutual recognition of the drawing to an end of one little cycle of their life, and try though he might, Harvey Grimm could never escape from the queer sense of foreboding which had haunted him for the last few hours. And then, towards the end of the meal, a page-boy came into the room, gazed around for a moment and approached their table. "Two gentlemen would like to speak to you, Mr. Grimm," he announced. Harvey Grimm laid down his knife and fork. He nodded to the boy, but there was a queer, hunted look in his eyes as he turned towards his companion. "Stephen, old fellow," he muttered, "it's come." The poet laid his hand upon his friend's shoulder.