It was not difficult to find the Angry Cheese. About this newest of London’s night-clubs there was nothing coy or reticent. Its doorway stood open to the street, and cabs were drawing up in a constant stream and discharging fair women and well-tailored men. Furthermore, to render identification easy for the very dullest, there stood on the pavement outside a vast commissionaire, brilliantly attired in the full-dress uniform of a Czecho-Slovakian field-marshal and wearing on his head a peaked cap circled by a red band, which bore in large letters of gold the words “Angry Cheese.” “Good evening,” said Sam, curvetting buoyantly up to this spectacular person. “I want to speak to Mr. Bates.” The field-marshal eyed him distantly. The man, one would have said, was not in sympathy with him. Sam could not imagine why. With the prospect of a loan in sight, he himself was liking everybody. “Misteroo?” “Mr. Bates.” “Mr. Yates?” “Mr. Bates. Mr. Bates. You know Mr. Bates?” said Sam. And such was the stimulating rhythm of the melody into which the unseen orchestra had just burst that he very nearly added, “He’s a bear, he’s a bear, he’s a bear.” “Bates?” “Or Tresidder.” “Make up your mind,” said the field-marshal petulantly. At this moment, on the opposite side of the street, there appeared the figure of Mr. Willoughby Braddock, walking with extraordinary swiftness. His eyes were staring straight in front of him. He had lost his hat. “Bradder!” cried Sam. Mr. Braddock looked over his shoulder, waved his hand, smiled a smile of piercing sweetness and passed rapidly into the night. Sam was in a state of indecision similar to that of the dog in the celebrated substance-and-shadow fable. Should he pursue this will-o’-the-wisp, or should he stick to the sound Conservative policy of touching the man on the spot? What would Napoleon have done? He decided to remain. “Fellow who was at school with me,” he remarked explanatorily. “Ho!” said the field-marshal, looking like a stuffed sergeant-major. “And now,” said Sam, “can I see Mr. Bates?” “You cannot.” “But he’s in there.” “And you’re out ’ere,” said the field-marshal. He moved away to assist a young lady of gay exterior to alight from a taxicab. And as he did so, someone spoke from the steps. “Ah, there you are!” Sam looked up, relieved. Dear old Bates was standing in the lighted doorway. Of the four persons who made up the little group collected about the threshold of the Angry Cheese, three now spoke simultaneously. Dear old Bates said, “This is topping! Thought you weren’t coming.” The lady said, “Awfully sorry I’m late, old cork.” Sam said, “Oh, Bates.” He was standing some little space removed from the main body when he spoke, and the words did not register. The lady passed on into the building. Bates was preparing to follow her, when Sam spoke again. And this time nobody within any reasonable radius could have failed to hear him. “Hi, Bates!”