“Partly; I’m looking for a man who might be there.” They crossed Piccadilly, and entered a side turning. The second on the left and the first on the right brought them opposite a brightly-lit hotel. From within came the sound of violins. At the little tables with which the spacious bar-room was set about sat laughing women and young men in evening dress. A haze of cigarette smoke clouded the atmosphere, and the music made itself heard above a babel of laughter and talk. They found a corner, and seated themselves. “You seem to be fairly well known here,” said Jimmy. “Yes,” replied Angel ruefully, “a jolly sight too well known. You’re not quite a stranger, Jimmy,” he added. “No,” said the other a little bitterly; “but we’re on different sides of the House, Angel. You’re in the Cabinet, and I’m in the everlasting Opposition.” “Muffled sobs!” said Angel flippantly. “Pity poor Ishmael who ‘ishes’ for his own pleasure! Pathos for a fallen brother! A silent tear for this magnificent wreck who’d rather be on the rocks than floating any day of the week. Don’t humbug yourself, Jimmy, or I shall be falling on your neck and appealing to your better nature. You’re a thief just as another man is a stamp collector or a hunter. It’s your blooming _forte_. Hi, Charles, do you ever intend serving me?” “Yessir; d’reckly, sir.” Charles bustled up. “What is it to be, gentlemen? Good evening, Mr. Angel!” “I’ll take what my friend Dooley calls a keg of obscenth; and you?” Jimmy’s face struggled to preserve its gravity. “Lemonade,” he said soberly. The waiter brought him a whisky. If you do not know the “Plait” you do not know your London. It is one of the queer hostels which in a Continental city would be noted as a place to which the “young person” might not be taken. Being in London, neither Baedeker nor any of the infallible guides to the metropolis so much as mention its name. For there is a law of libel. “There’s ‘Snatch’ Walker,” said Angel idly. “Snatch isn’t wanted just now--in this country. There’s ‘Frisco Kate,’ who’ll get a lifer one of these days. D’ye know the boy in the mustard suit, Jimmy?” Jimmy took a sidelong glance at the young man. “No; he’s new.” “Not so new either,” said Angel. “Budapest in the racing season, Jerusalem in the tourist season; a wealthy Hungarian nobleman traveling for his health all the time--that’s him.” “Ambiguous, ungrammatical, but convincing,” murmured Jimmy. “I want him, by the way!” Angel had suddenly become alert. “If you’re going to have a row, I’m off,” said Jimmy, finishing his drink. Angel caught his arm. A man had entered the saloon, and was looking round as though in search of somebody. He caught Jimmy’s eye and started. Then he threaded his way through the crowded room. “Hullo, Jim----” He stopped dead as he saw Jimmy’s companion, and his hand went into his pocket. “Hullo, Connor!”--Angel’s smile was particularly disarming--“you’re the man I want to see.”