“There's the wan we got um up by.” “It will do,” said Westover, as simply. But Lynde called out, defiantly: “Back way; I sha'n't go down back way. Inshult to guest. I wish--say--good-night to--Mrs. Enderby. Who you, anyway? Damn caterer's man?” “I'm Westover, Lynde,” the painter began, but the young fellow broke in upon him, shaking his hand and then taking his arm. “Oh, Westover! All right! I'll go down back way with you. Thought--thought it was damn caterer's man. No--offence.” “No. It's all right.” Westover got his arm under Lynde's elbow, and, with the man going before for them to fall upon jointly in case they should stumble, he got him down the dark and twisting stairs and through the basement hall, which was vaguely haunted by the dispossessed women servants of the family, and so out upon the pavement of the moonlighted streets. “Call Miss Lynde's car'ge,” shouted the caterer's man to the barker, and escaped back into the basement, leaving Westover to stay his helpless charge on the sidewalk. It seemed a publication of the wretch's shame when the barker began to fill the night with hoarse cries of, “Miss Lynde's carriage; carriage for Miss Lynde!” The cries were taken up by a coachman here and there in the rank of vehicles whose varnished roofs shone in the moon up and down the street. After a time that Westover of course felt to be longer than it was, Miss Lynde's old coachman was roused from his sleep on the box and started out of the rank. He took in the situation with the eye of custom, when he saw Alan supported on the sidewalk by a stranger at the end of the canopy covering the pavement. He said, “Oh, ahl right, sor!” and when the two white-gloved policemen from either side of it helped Westover into the carriage with Lynde, he set off at a quick trot. The policemen clapped their hands together, and smiled across the strip of carpet that separated them, and winks and nods of intelligence passed among the barkers to the footmen about the curb and steps. There were none of them sorry to see a gentleman in that state; some of them had perhaps seen Alan in that state before. Half-way home he roused himself and put his hand on the carriage-door latch. “Tell the coachman drive us to--the--club. Make night of it.” “No, no,” said Westover, trying to restrain him. “We'd better go right on to your house.” “Who--who--who are you?” demanded Alan. “Westover.”