An adjutant in green, with a great flutter of white cock’s feathers from his chapeau, sitting up on the box of an equipage, accompanied by flunkies in the royal blue and white of Bavaria, was a more agreeable object to contemplate than Mr Blumenthal, and Gethryn felt as much personal connection with the Prince Regent hurrying home to Munich, from his little hunting visit to the emperor of Austria, as with the wrangling Jews behind the close-drawn blinds of the coffee-room at his back. The sun was slowly declining. Rex rose and idled into the smoking-room. It was deserted but for the clerk at his desk, a railed enclosure, one side of which opened into the smoking-room, the other side into the hall. Across the hall was a door with “Café—Restaurant,” in gilt letters above it. Rex did not enter the café; he sat and dreamed in the empty smoking-room over his cigarette. But it was lively in the café, in spite of the waning season. A good many of the tables were occupied. At one of them sat the three unchaperoned Miss Dashleighs, in company with three solemn, high-shouldered young officers, enjoying something in tall, slender tumblers which looked hot and smelled spicy. At another table Mr Everett Tweeler and Mrs Tweeler were alternately scolding and stuffing Master Irving Tweeler, who expressed in impassioned tones a desire for tarts. “Ur—r—ving!” remonstrated Mr Tweeler. “Dahling!” argued Mrs Tweeler. “If oo eats too many ’ittle cakies then oo tant go home to Salem on the puffy, puffy choo-choo boat.” Old Sir Griffin Damby overheard and snorted. When Master Tweeler secured his tarts, Sir Griffin blessed the meal with a hearty “damn!” He did not care for Master Tweeler’s nightly stomach aches, but their rooms adjoined. When “Ur—r—ving” reached unmolested for his fourth, Sir Griffin rose violently, and muttering, “Change me room, begad!” waddled down to the door, glaring aggressively at the occupants of the various tables. Near the exit a half suppressed squeal caused him to swing round. He had stepped squarely on the toe of a meager individual, who now sat nursing his foot in bitter dejection. “Pardon—” began Sir Griffin, then stopped and glared at the sallow-faced person. Sir Griffin stared hard at the man he had stepped on, and at his female companion. “Damn it!” he cried. “Keep your feet out of the way, do you hear?” puffed his cheeks, squared his shoulders and snorted himself out of the café. The yellow-faced man was livid with rage. “Don’t be a fool, Mannie,” whispered the woman; “don’t make a row—do you know who that is?” “He’s an English hog,” spluttered the man with an oath; “he’s a cursed hog of an Englishman!” “Yes, and he knows us. He was at Monaco a few summers ago. Don’t forget who turned us out of the Casino.” Emanuel Pick turned a shade more sallow and sank back in his seat. Neither spoke again for some moments. Presently the woman began to stir the bits of lemon and ice in her empty tumbler. Pick watched her sulkily.