At that moment a servant crossed the room and stood before Ralston. Miner waited to see what would happen, half believing that Ralston was not in earnest, but had surreptitiously touched the electric bell on the table at his elbow, with the intention of ordering something. “Mr. Lauderdale wishes to speak to you at the telephone, sir,” said the servant. The man’s expression betrayed his respect for the name, and for a person who had a telephone in his house--an unusual thing in New York. It was the sort of expression which the waiters at restaurants put on when they present to the diner a dish of terrapin or a canvas-back duck, or open a very particularly old bottle of very particularly fine wine--quite different from the stolid look they wear for beef and table-claret. “Which Mr. Lauderdale?” asked Ralston, with a sudden frown. “Mr. Alexander Lauderdale Junior?” “I don’t know, sir. The gentleman’s at the telephone, sir.” This seemed to be added as a gentle hint not to keep any one of the name of Lauderdale waiting too long. Ralston rose quickly, and Miner watched him as he passed out with long strides and a rather anxious face, wondering what could be the matter with his friend, and somehow connecting his refusal to drink with the summons to the instrument. Then Miner followed slowly in the same direction, with his hands in his pockets and his lips pursed as though he were about to whistle. He knew the man well enough to be aware that his refusal to drink might proceed from his having taken all he could stand for the present, and Ralston’s ill temper inclined Miner to believe that this might be the case. Ralston rarely betrayed himself at all, until he suddenly became viciously unmanageable, a fact which made him always the function of a doubtful quantity, as Miner, who had once learned a little mathematics, was fond of expressing it. The little man was essentially sociable, and though he might want the very small and mild drink he was fond of ever so much, he preferred, if possible, to swallow it in company. Instead of ringing, therefore, he strolled away in search of another friend. As luck would have it, he almost ran against Walter Crowdie, who was coming towards him, but looking after Ralston, as the latter disappeared at the other end of the hall. Crowdie seemed excessively irritated about something. “Confound that fellow!” he exclaimed, giving vent to his feelings as he turned and saw Miner close upon him. “Who? Me?” enquired the little man, with a laugh. “Everybody’s purple with rage in this club to-day--I’m going home.” “You? No--is that you, Frank? No--I mean that everlasting Ralston.” “Oh! What’s he done to you? What’s the matter with Ralston?”