'I remember you perfectly,' Lavendale acknowledged. 'Very pleasant dinner we had.' Mr. Courlander fell into step with his companion, who had turned eastwards. 'There are few things in the world that Ludwig Kessner doesn't understand,' he continued, 'from the placing of a loan to the ordering of a dinner. He isn't much use at eating it, poor fellow, but that's the fault of his digestion. Too much ice-water, I tell him.' Lavendale nodded affably. He had no objection whatever to discussing Mr. Kessner. 'Kind of misunderstood over here, the boss,' Courlander went on. 'People think because he's of German extraction that his sympathies are altogether that way. As a matter of fact, I can tell you, Mr. Lavendale, that people are dead wrong. At the present moment--I wouldn't have every one know this, but you're an American, too--Mr. Kessner is making proposals for a very large purchase of British War Loan.' 'Is he indeed!' Lavendale observed, in a tone as colourless as he could make it. Courlander glanced at him curiously. They were passing the Carlton and he drew his arm through Lavendale's. 'Just one cocktail,' he suggested. Lavendale hesitated for a moment, inspired by an instinctive dislike of his companion. Policy, however, intervened. He accepted the invitation and followed Courlander into the smoke-room. They found two easy-chairs and the latter gave the order. 'I was talking about the boss,' he went on. 'There are others besides you who have misunderstood him some, but they'll learn the truth before the war's over.' 'When is Mr. Kessner returning to America?' Lavendale asked. 'As soon as he can find a safe steamer,' Courlander replied. 'He is a trifle nervous about the Atlantic. Say, that tastes good!' Mr. Courlander leaned back and sipped his cocktail. Lavendale, with a word of excuse, rose to his feet and strolled across the room to speak to an acquaintance. He returned in less than a minute. Mr. Courlander was leaning back in his chair, American from tip to toe. He wore a dark grey suit of some smooth material. His square-toed boots, the little flag in his buttonhole, his prim tie, his air of genial confidence, were all eloquently and convincingly typical of his nationality. Lavendale was followed by a waiter bearing two more glasses upon a tray. 'Try my sort,' he invited. Mr. Courlander glanced at Lavendale's glass, which was still three-quarters full. 'You haven't finished your first one yet,' he remarked. 'A little too dry for me,' Lavendale replied, placing it upon the tray and taking the full glass. 'Here's luck!' The two men looked at one another. In Courlander's hard brown eyes, a little narrowed by his drooping eyebrows, there was an air of fierce though latent questioning. Then with an abrupt gesture he took the glass from the tray and drank off its contents. 'You'll forgive me if I hurry away,' Lavendale went on. 'We shall meet again, I dare say, before Mr. Kessner leaves.'