"They'll suffer for this some day!" he suddenly declared, with the vehemence of a Socialist confronted by the voluptuosities of a Gomorrah. "They'll suffer for it!" "For what particular reason?" I inquired, following his gaze about that quite unapprehensive roomful of decorous revelers. "Because one-half of them," he avowed, "are harpies, and the other half are thieves!" "Are you a New Yorker?" I mildly asked him. I had been wondering if, under the circumstances, even a voluminous paddock-coat would be reckoned as adequate payment for a repast so princely. The man had already proved to me that his pockets were empty. "No, I'm not," he retorted. "I'm from God's country." That doubtlessly irreproachable yet vaguely denominated territory left me so much in doubt that I had to ask for the second time the place of his origin. "I come from Virginia," he answered, "and if I'd stayed there I wouldn't be where I am to-night." As this was an axiom which seemed to transcend criticism I merely turned back to him and asked: "And where are you to-night?" He lifted his glass and emptied it. Then he leaned forward across the table, staring me in the eyes as he spoke. "Do you know the town of Hanover, down in Virginia?" I had to confess that I did not. As he sat looking at me, with a shadow of disappointment on his lean face, I again asked him to particularize his present whereabouts. "I'm on the last inch of the last rope-end," was his answer. "It seems to have its ameliorating condition," I remarked, glancing about the table. He emitted a sharp cackle of a laugh. "You'll have to leave me before I order the liqueur. This," with a hand-sweep about the cluster of dishes, "is some music I'll have to face alone. But what's that, when you're on the last inch of the last rope-end?" "Your position," I ventured, "sounds almost like a desperate one." "Desperate!" he echoed. "It's more than that. It's hopeless!" "You have doubtless been visiting Wall Street or possibly buying mining-stock?" was my flippant suggestion. His manner of speech, I was beginning to feel, was not markedly southern. "No," he cried with quick solemnity. "I've been _selling_ it." "But such activities, I assumed, were far removed from the avenues of remorse." He stared at me, absently, for a moment or two. Then he moved restlessly in his chair. "Did you ever hear of a wire-tapper?" he demanded. "Quite often," I answered. "Did you ever fall for one of their yarns? Did you ever walk into one of their nice, gold-plated traps and have them shake you down for everything you owned--and even for things you didn't own?" Here was a misfortune, I had to confess, which had not yet knocked at my door.