Hamilton Gardens was a gloomy little place, like a tenement building out of Marylebone Road. Bruce, in trying to ring the bell, unfortunately turned out all the electric light in the house, and was standing alone in despair in the dark when, fortunately the porter, who had been out to post a letter, ran back, and turned up the light again.... 'I shouldn't have thought they could play musical crambo here, 'he called out to Edith while he was waiting. 'And now isn't it odd? I have a funny kind of feeling that the right address is Hamilton House.' 'I suppose you're perfectly certain they don't live at a private idiot asylum?' Edith suggested doubtfully. On inquiry it appeared the Mitchells did not live at Hamilton Gardens. An idea occurred to Edith, and she asked for a directory. The Winthrop Mitchells lived at Hamilton Terrace, St John's Wood. 'At last!' said Bruce. 'Now we shall be too disgracefully late for the first time. But be perfectly at your ease, dear. Promise me that. Go in quite naturally.' 'How else can I go in?' 'I mean as if nothing had happened.' 'I think we'd better tell them what _has_ happened,' said Edith; 'it will make them laugh. I hope they will have begun their dinner.' 'Surely they will have finished it.' 'Perhaps we may find them at their games!' 'Now, now, don't be bitter, Edith dear--never be bitter--life has its ups and downs.... Well! I'm rather glad, after all, that Mitchell doesn't live in that horrid little hole.' 'I'm sure you are,' said Edith; 'it could be no possible satisfaction to you to know that a friend and colleague of yours is either distressingly hard up or painfully penurious.' They arrived at the house, but there were no lights, and no sign of life. The Mitchells lived here all right, but they were out. The parlourmaid explained. The dinner-party had been Saturday, the night before.... 'Strange,' said Bruce, as he got in again. 'I had a curious presentiment that something was going wrong about this dinner at the Mitchells'.' 'What dinner at the Mitchells'? There doesn't seem to be any.' 'Do you know,' Bruce continued his train of thought, 'I felt certain somehow that it would be a failure. Wasn't it odd? I often think I'm a pessimist, and yet look how well I'm taking it. I'm more like a fatalist--sometimes I hardly know what I am.' 'I could tell you what you are,' said Edith, 'but I won't, because now you must take me to the Carlton. We shall get there before it's closed.' CHAPTER II Opera Glasses