“Did he drop it?” asked Mellin innocently. Mr. Pedlow leaned forward and struck the young man's knee a resounding blow with the palm of his hand. “He was _nominated_, wasn't he?” “Time to dress,” announced Mr. Sneyd, looking at his watch. “One more round first,” insisted Cooley with prompt vehemence. “Let's finish with our first toast again. Can't drink that too often.” This proposition was received with warmest approval, and they drank standing. “Brightest and best!” shouted Mr. Pedlow. “Queen! What she is!” exclaimed Cooley. _“Ma belle Marquise!”_ whispered Mellin tenderly, as the rim touched his lips. A small, keen-faced man, whose steady gray eyes were shielded by tortoise-rimmed spectacles, had come into the room and now stood quietly at the bar, sipping a glass of Vichy. He was sharply observant of the party as it broke up, Pedlow and Sneyd preceding the younger men to the corridor, and, as the latter turned to follow, the stranger stepped quickly forward, speaking Cooley's name. “What's the matter?” “Perhaps you don't remember me. My name's Cornish. I'm a newspaper man, a correspondent.” (He named a New York paper.) “I'm down here to get a Vatican story. I knew your father for a number of years before his death, and I think I may claim that he was a friend of mine.” “That's good,” said the youth cordially. “If I hadn't a fine start already, and wasn't in a hurry to dress, we'd have another.” “You were pointed out to me in Paris,” continued Cornish. “I found where you were staying and called on you the next day, but you had just started for the Riviera.” He hesitated, glancing at Mellin. “Can you give me half a dozen words with you in private?” “You'll have to excuse me, I'm afraid. I've only got about ten minutes to dress. See you to-morrow.” “I should like it to be as soon as possible,” the journalist said seriously. “It isn't on my own account, and I--” “All right. You come to my room at ten t'morrow morning?” “Well, if you can't possibly make it to-night,” said Cornish reluctantly. “I wish--” “Can't possibly.” And Cooley, taking Mellin by the arm, walked rapidly down the corridor. “Funny ole correspondent,” he murmured. “What do _I_ know about the Vatican?” V. Lady Mount Rhyswicke The four friends of Madame de Vaurigard were borne to her apartment from the Magnifique in Cooley's big car. They sailed triumphantly down and up the hills in a cool and bracing air, under a moon that shone as brightly for them as it had for Caesar, and Mellin's soul was buoyant within him. He thought of Cranston and laughed aloud. What would Cranston say if it could see him in a sixty-horse touring-car, with two millionaires and an English diplomat, brother of an earl, and all on the way to dine with a countess? If Mary Kramer could see him!... Poor Mary Kramer! Poor little Mary Kramer!