In the scarf of violet silk, which just matched the waistcoat, sparkled a large diamond. On several of the pudgy fingers were a plentitude of rings—also set with diamonds. But the most remarkable feature of the man was the face which topped the barrel-like figure, and which had the grotesque appearance of being set directly upon the broad, check-clad shoulders without the usual formality of a neck. It was smooth-shaven, round, and jolly, merging imperceptibly into the bat-wing collar by a series of double chins. The eyes were small, deep-set and blue, and had in them an expression of such infantile innocence as to be almost incongruous. This, together with the soft, smooth, pink-and-white skin, gave him the look of a plump, good-natured cherub, who had allowed his taste for rather vivid colorings and effects in the matter of dress to run riot. But J. Harry Edgerton was very far from living up to his appearance. There was nothing whatever of the innocent cherub about his personality, though he had often found it expedient and profitable to allow that impression to prevail. It had been invaluable in leading strangers to stay with him in a stiff poker game, under the impression that the pouting, childlike look of dismay as he surveyed his hand was a true reflection of the cards themselves. Too late they would discover that Edgerton was simply bluffing, and they would retire from the game sadder, wiser, and poorer men. J. Harry had thus acquired a manner which was in perfect accord with his looks, and gradually this had become so fixed a habit that he rarely put it aside, except in moments of great excitement or tension, when his true self came to the surface. At other times he was the bland, jolly, good-tempered and careless individual which his appearance implied. A good deal of a sport, to be sure, but full of bright, witty stories, which he narrated in a droll way that was irresistible, and altogether a most desirable fellow to take a hand at poker or make a fourth at bridge. His small, bright eyes lit up and a wide smile wreathed his fat countenance as he saw Clarence Carr advancing toward his position at the end of the bar. “Well, well,” he chuckled, holding out a plump, pink hand. “My old college chum! How are you, Clarence, old boy? What’ll you take?” Carr grinned as he clasped the bejeweled fingers. “Glad to see you, old sport,” he returned. “Make it a rye high ball.” “Scotch for me,” nodded the stout cherub to the waiting attendant. “And say—bring them over to a table. I want to rest my bones.” “Didn’t know they needed resting, Harry,” smiled Carr, as they crossed the room to a little table in the corner. “They’re so bolstered up and supported with blubber, you know.” With a sigh, Edgerton relapsed carefully into a creaking chair. “Same old joker, I see,” he chortled. “Wait till you tip the scales at three hundred odd and you’ll feel the need of resting something. Whether it’s bones or not, I can’t say.”