is once more taken off, the gloves are petulantly flung down, the cane is tossed anywhere, and-- Rat-tat-tat, &c. resound once more through the rooms; and following quick as though he were the visible echo of a single rap, Cool Sam comes in. He had found Tim at the open door chatting with the messenger in waiting. Cool Sam! Now own frankly that there is small chance of your escape on this side the dinner-hour--nay, there is none at all. An engagement you may have, a determination you may have formed; but do you for a single instant seriously expect to fulfil the one, or hold to the other? Then you are a fool. We prophesy at once, that _you won't get out to-day_. A man may be always going and going, and yet never be gone. You are Sam's till dinner-time, you are Sam's then, and you are Sam's afterwards. Till bed-time (and he himself fixes that hour) you are his. Mark our words if you are not. True, you tell him you have to write a letter. "Write away, boy," he responds, "I can wait." You warn him that the moment this feat is accomplished, you must sally forth on urgent and especial business. "All right," he rejoins, "I'll jump into a cab with you, and we'll come back and dine. I came on purpose." A glance tells you, if your ears did not, that your guest has settled the thing. His looks, his tone, his bearing, are in exquisite agreement; for a quiet conviction, that what _he_ has made up his mind to _must_ take place, there never was anything like it. You write a word or two, and in agitation blot; another line, and then an erasure again. _Does_ he mean to _stop_! Your perplexity increases. No, this smudge of a note will never do; you take another sheet and recommence your epistle. "Take your time, boy, take your time; we shan't dine till seven I suppose." Your eye wanders for an instant, and you discover that there is but _one_ hat in the room, and that the one is your own. His is hanging up with his umbrella; he had disposed of both, like a man who means to stay, before he entered the apartment.