After a very excellent dinner, for which Mr. Gaynsforth insisted upon paying, they went to the Folies Bergeres, where the Englishman developed a thirst which, considering the coolness of the evening, was nothing short of amazing. Mr. Coulson, however, kept pace with him steadily, and toward midnight their acquaintance had steadily progressed until they were certainly on friendly if not affectionate terms. A round of the supper places, proposed by the Englishman, was assented to by Mr. Coulson with enthusiasm. About three o’clock in the morning Mr. Coulson had the appearance of a man for whom the troubles of this world are over, and who was realizing the ecstatic bliss of a temporary Nirvana. Mr. Gaynsforth, on the other hand, although half an hour ago he had been boisterous and unsteady, seemed suddenly to have become once more the quiet, discreet-looking young Englishman who had first bowed to Mr. Coulson in the bar of the Grand Hotel and accepted with some diffidence his offer of a drink. To prevent his friend being jostled by the somewhat mixed crowd in which they then were, Mr. Gaynsforth drew nearer and nearer to him. He even let his hand stray over his person, as though to be sure that he was not carrying too much in his pockets. “Say, old man,” he whispered in his ear,--they were sitting side by side now in the Bal Tabarin,--“if you are going on like this, Heaven knows where you’ll land at the end of it all! I’ll look after you as well as I can,--where you go, I’ll go--but we can’t be together every second of the time. Don’t you think you’d be safer if you handed over your pocketbook to me?” “Right you are!” Mr. Coulson declared, falling a little over on one side. “Take it out of my pocket. Be careful of it now. There’s five hundred francs there, and the plans of a loom which I wouldn’t sell for a good many thousands.” Mr. Gaynsforth possessed himself quickly of the pocketbook, and satisfied himself that his friend’s description of its contents was fairly correct. “You’ve nothing else upon you worth taking care of?” he whispered. “You can trust me, you know. You haven’t any papers, or anything of that sort?” Then Mr. James B. Coulson, who was getting tired of his part, suddenly sat up, and a soberer man had never occupied that particular chair in the Bal Tabarin. “And if I have, my young friend,” he said calmly, “what the devil business is it of yours?” Mr. Gaynsforth was taken aback and showed it. He recovered himself as quickly as possible, and realized that he had been living in a fool’s paradise so far as the condition of his companion was concerned. He realized, also, that the first move in the game between them had been made and that he had lost. “You are too good an actor for me, Mr. Coulson,” he said. “Suppose we get to business.” “That’s all right,” Mr. Coulson answered. “Let’s go somewhere where we can get some supper. We’ll go to the Abbaye Theleme, and you shall have the pleasure of entertaining me.”