His hair was slightly tinged with grey, but his moustache was still jet-black and elaborately curled and waxed. His forehead was low and his full red lips and slightly hooked nose gave him something of a Jewish appearance. He had just missed being handsome, and, similarly, had just missed being good form; at least, so it seemed to me from my first rapid survey, and I did not afterwards change my opinion. Directly we entered the room he moved forward to meet us, with a smile which revealed a very fine set of teeth. I watched him closely as he noted the addition to the party, but he betrayed no surprise or annoyance. On the contrary, when Cecil had introduced me as his friend and fellow-pupil at Borden Tower, he welcomed me with a courtesy which was a little effusive. On the whole, I decided that his manners were in his favour. There was some casual conversation, an explanation rather more elaborate than seemed to me necessary of his flying visit to Little Drayton, and then dinner was announced. Everything had evidently been carefully ordered and prepared and was of the best. Mr. Fothergill, whatever his shortcomings, made a capital host; and his talk, though a trifle slangy and coarse at times, was amusing in the extreme. Altogether, the dinner was a success in every respect save one. For four men, two of whom were under twenty, there was a great deal too much wine drunk. I think I scarcely noticed it until the cloth was removed and dessert placed upon the table. Then a curious sense of exhilaration in my own spirits warned me to be careful and I looked round at once at the others. Cecil sat directly opposite to me and I saw at a glance how it was with him. His hair, which he always kept rather long, but carefully parted, was disarranged and untidy; his neat tie had become crumpled and had slipped up on one side; his eyes were sparkling, as though with some unusual excitement, and there was a glow of colour in his cheeks almost hectic in its intensity. At the head of the table our host was still smiling and debonair, looking as though he had been drinking nothing stronger than water; and opposite to him de Cartienne was leaning back in his chair with a faint tinge of colour in his olive cheeks and a peculiar glitter in his dark eyes which was anything but pleasant to look upon. Altogether, the appearance of the trio was like a cold douche to me and brought me swiftly back to my former watchfulness. I felt instinctively there was mischief brewing. "I say, Fothergill, let's have a hand at cards!" Cecil exclaimed, breaking a momentary silence. "You owe us a revenge, you know! George! didn't you clean us out last time we played! We'll clean you out to-night, hanged if we won't! What shall it be?" Mr. Fothergill shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly. "Cards--cards! It's always cards!" he answered lightly. "Can't you think of something else to do?" "Yes; hang cards!" muttered de Cartienne.