One of them, a sallow, liverish individual, divided his interest between two widely separated tables. His companion was interested in nothing except his food, which being wholly unsatisfactory to him, relieved him of the necessity of talking about anything else. He spoke of it from time to time, however, usually to the waiter, who could only say that he was sorry. This man was a red-faced, sharp-nosed person with an unmistakable Cockney accent. He seemed to find a great deal of comfort in verbally longing for the day when he could get back to Simpson's in the Strand for a bit of "roast that is a roast." The crowd began to thin out shortly after the time set for the lifting of curtains in all of the theatres. It was then that the sallow-faced man arose from his seat and, after asking his companion to excuse him for a minute, approached Stuyvesant Smith-Parvis. That gentleman had been dizzily ogling a dashing, spirited young woman at the table presided over by Mr. McFaddan, a circumstance which not only annoyed the lady but also one closer at hand. The latter was wanting to know, in some heat, what he took her for. If he thought she'd stand for anything like that, he had another guess coming. "May I have a word with you?" asked the sallow man, inserting his head between Stuyvesant and the protesting young woman. "The bouncer," cried the young woman, looking up. "Good work. That's what you get for making eyes at strange--" "Shut up," said Stuyvie, who had, after a moment's concentration, recognized the man. "What do you want?" "A word in private," said the other. Stuyvesant got up and followed him to a vacant table in the rear. "She is here," said the stranger. "Here in this restaurant. Not more than fifty feet from where we're sitting." The listener blinked. His brain was foggy. "What's that?" he mumbled, thickly. "The girl you're lookin' for," said the man. Stuyvesant sat up abruptly. His brain seemed to clear. "You mean--Miss Emsdale?" he demanded, rather distinctly. The little man in the red coat, sitting just above them on the edge of the platform, where he was resting after a particularly long and arduous number, pricked up his ears. He, too, had seen the radiant, friendly face of the English girl at the far end of the room, and had favoured her with more than one smile of appreciation. "Yes. Stand up and take a look. Keep back of this palm, so's she won't lamp you. 'Way over there with the white-haired old lady. Am I right? She's the one, ain't she?" Smith-Parvis became visibly excited. "Yes,--there's not the slightest doubt. How--how long has she been here? Why the devil didn't you tell me sooner?" "Don't get excited. Better not let her see you in this condition. She looks like a nice, refined girl. She--" "What do you mean 'condition'? I'm all right," retorted the young man, bellicose at once. "I know you are," said the other soothingly.