“Good night, Braith,” said Gethryn slowly. CHAPTER V. Thirion’s at six pm. Madame Thirion, neat and demure, sat behind her desk; her husband, in white linen apron and cap, scuttled back and forth shouting, “Bon! Bon!” to the orders that came down the call trumpet. The waiters flew crazily about, and cries went up for “Pierre” and “Jean” and “green peas and fillet.” The noise, smoke, laughter, shouting, rattle of dishes, the penetrating odor of burnt paper and French tobacco, all proclaimed the place a Latin Quarter restaurant. The English and Americans ate like civilized beings and howled like barbarians. The Germans, when they had napkins, tucked them under their chins. The Frenchmen—well! they often agreed with the hated Teuton in at least one thing; that knives were made to eat with. But which of the four nationalities exceeded the others in turbulence and bad language would be hard to say. Clifford was eating his chop and staring at the blonde adjunct of a dapper little Frenchman. “Clifford,” said Carleton, “stop that.” “I’m mesmerizing her,” said Clifford. “It’s a case of hypnotism.” The girl, who had been staring back at Clifford, suddenly shrugged her shoulders, and turning to her companion, said aloud: “How like a monkey, that foreigner!” Clifford withdrew his eyes in a hurry, amid a roar of laughter from the others. He was glad when Braith’s entrance caused a diversion. “Hullo, Don Juan! I see you, Lothario! Drinking _again?_” Braith took it all as a matter of course, but this time failed to return as good as they gave. He took a seat beside Gethryn and said in a low tone: “I’ve just come from your house. There’s a letter from the Salon in your box.” Gethryn set down his wine untasted and reached for his hat. “What’s the matter, Reggy? Has Lisette gone back on you?” asked Clifford, tenderly. “It’s the Salon,” said Braith, as Gethryn went out with a hasty “Good night.” “Poor Reggy, how hard he takes it!” sighed Clifford. Gethryn hurried along the familiar streets with his heart in his boots sometimes, and sometimes in his mouth. In his box was a letter and a note addressed in pencil. He snatched them both, and lighting a candle, mounted the stairs, unlocked his door and sank breathless upon the lounge. He tore open the first envelope. A bit of paper fell out. It was from Braith and said: “I congratulate you either way. If you are successful I shall be as glad as you are. If not, I still congratulate you on the manly courage which you are going to show in turning defeat into victory.” “He’s one in a million,” thought Gethryn, and opened the other letter. It contained a folded paper and a card. The card was white. The paper read: “You are admitted to the Salon with a No. 1. My compliments. J. Lefebvre”