'Don't count on me to contribute a romantic story to this Arabian Night's Entertainment. My difficulty would have been to stop away. My name's Waterall, and I'm the London correspondent of the _New York Chronicle_. I had to be there this afternoon in the way of business.' Mr Birdsey giggled self-consciously, but not without a certain impish pride. 'The laugh will be on me when you hear my confession. My daughter married an English earl, and my wife brought me over here to mix with his crowd. There was a big dinner-party tonight, at which the whole gang were to be present, and it was as much as my life was worth to side-step it. But when you get the Giants and the White Sox playing ball within fifty miles of you--Well, I packed a grip and sneaked out the back way, and got to the station and caught the fast train to London. And what is going on back there at this moment I don't like to think. About now,' said Mr Birdsey, looking at his watch, 'I guess they'll be pronging the _hors d'oeuvres_ and gazing at the empty chair. It was a shame to do it, but, for the love of Mike, what else could I have done?' He looked at the bearded man. 'Did you have any adventures, Mr Johnson?' 'No. I--I just came.' The young man Waterall leaned forward. His manner was quiet, but his eyes were glittering. 'Wasn't that enough of an adventure for you?' he said. Their eyes met across the table. Seated between them, Mr Birdsey looked from one to the other, vaguely disturbed. Something was happening, a drama was going on, and he had not the key to it. Johnson's face was pale, and the tablecloth crumpled into a crooked ridge under his fingers, but his voice was steady as he replied: 'I don't understand.' 'Will you understand if I give you your right name, Mr Benyon?' 'What's all this?' said Mr Birdsey feebly. Waterall turned to him, the vulturine cast of his face more noticeable than ever. Mr Birdsey was conscious of a sudden distaste for this young man. 'It's quite simple, Mr Birdsey. If you have not been entertaining angels unawares, you have at least been giving a dinner to a celebrity. I told you I was sure I had seen this gentleman before. I have just remembered where, and when. This is Mr John Benyon, and I last saw him five years ago when I was a reporter in New York, and covered his trial.' 'His trial?' 'He robbed the New Asiatic Bank of a hundred thousand dollars, jumped his bail, and was never heard of again.' 'For the love of Mike!' Mr Birdsey stared at his guest with eyes that grew momently wider. He was amazed to find that deep down in him there was an unmistakable feeling of elation. He had made up his mind, when he left home that morning, that this was to be a day of days. Well, nobody could call this an anti-climax. 'So that's why you have been living in Algiers?' Benyon did not reply. Outside, the Strand traffic sent a faint murmur into the warm, comfortable room.