A little later she saw him talking earnestly to her brother in a corner; then someone suggested billiard-fives. An admirable game, but not one in which it is wise to place one’s hand on the edge of the table with the fingers over the cushion. Especially if the owner of the hand is not paying attention to the game. It was Perrison’s hand, and the agony of being hit on the fingers by a full-sized billiard ball travelling fast must be experienced to be believed. Of course it was an accident: Longworth was most apologetic. But in the middle of the hideous scene that followed she caught his lazy blue eye and beat a hasty retreat to the hall. Unrestrained mirth in such circumstances is not regarded as the essence of tact. III It was about ten o’clock on the morning of the next day but one that a sharp-looking, flashily-dressed individual presented himself at the door of Messrs. Gross and Sons. He was of the type that may be seen by the score any day of the week propping up the West-end bars and discoursing on racing form in a hoarse whisper. “Mornin’,” he remarked. “Mr. Johnson here yet?” “What do you want to see him about?” demanded the assistant. “To tell him that your hair wants cutting,” snapped the other. “Hop along, young fellah; as an ornament you’re a misfit. Tell Mr. Johnson that I’ve a message from Mr. Perrison.” The youth faded away, to return in a minute or two with a request that the visitor would follow him. “Message from Perrison? What’s up?” Mr. Johnson rose from his chair as the door closed behind the assistant. The flashy individual laughed and pulled out his cigarette-case. “He’s pulled it off,” he chuckled. “At the present moment our one and only Joe is clasping the beauteous girl to his bosom.” “Strike me pink—he hasn’t, has he?” Mr. Johnson slapped his leg resoundingly and shook with merriment. “That’s why I’ve come round,” continued the other. “From Smith, I am. Joe wants to give her a little present on account.” He grinned again, and felt in his pocket. “Here it is—and he wants a receipt signed by you—acknowledging the return of the necklace which was sent out—on approval.” He winked heavily. “He’s infernally deep, is Joe.” He watched the other man as he picked up the pearls, and for a moment his blue eyes seemed a little strained. “He wants to give that receipt to the girl—so as to clinch the bargain.” “Why the dickens didn’t he ’phone me direct?” demanded Johnson, and once again the other grinned broadly.