The theatre crowds were on their way home, after their hour in the White Light restaurants; but in a little while their time had passed, and the avenue was silent and deserted save for a policeman who would now and then appear, and almost as quickly vanish. Most of the houses were gloom-fronted; a few scattering windows in the section just below the park showed night lights; but one house was brilliantly illuminated, and a long line of carriages was drawn up at the curb. It was past midnight when Kenyon came along, enveloped in a rain-coat and with an umbrella held over his head. “By George!” muttered he, “it is really at Farbush’s! What luck! To get inside now should be comparatively easy. What a fortunate thing it is that he should be giving this thing, whatever it is.” He stood in the drip of a roof across the street and watched the gaily lighted house. At length a party came out, protected by umbrellas held by footmen; these latter immediately returned and several other parties came out at once and scurried for their vehicles. “Now is my chance,” said Kenyon. He swiftly crossed the street, passed behind a carriage into which several exclaiming women were being helped, then up the wide steps and into the hall. “Shall I return your things to the coat-room, sir?” asked a servant. “Thanks--yes,” answered the adventurer, quietly. He handed his coat, hat, and umbrella to the man, who received the latter surprisedly. Its folds streamed with water, and he was clearly wondering if the rain were not heavier than he had thought it. However, he took the things away without any comment, and Kenyon, with a light breath of relief, walked into a room in which he could see a number of men smoking. His entrance being quiet and matter of fact, of course attracted no attention whatsoever. This was what he had calculated upon; he wore the conventional evening clothes; at a glance he looked exactly like the other males present, and no one could say that he was an intruder. “That is, no one but Farbush,” mused Kenyon, as he took a cigarette from a box upon a stand. “And if he should happen upon me, no doubt I can find a few things to say to him that would sufficiently account for my presence.” He was lounging calmly in a big chair when a voice at his side remarked: “It’s a fair cigarette that Farbush keeps, isn’t it. If his champagne were as good I should have nothing to complain of.” Kenyon turned. A pale-eyed young man with a budding mustache had drawn a chair up close to him, and was in the act of lighting a cigarette. There was a friendly, inconsequential look upon his chubby face, and the adventurer’s eyes snapped. “Yes, they are rather a good sort,” replied Kenyon, inspecting his cigarette critically. “But I haven’t tried the champagne.” The other made a wry face.