"He said he'd do for him. I could have laughed." "It was funny, I laughed myself, and about a woman, wasn't it?" "I don't know. But he was engaged to be married. I saw it in the papers." "And this young Paliser butted in?" "I couldn't say. But he threw up his business and sat around and last night he was going to do for him." "At the opera?" "He was talking random-like. He had just had a B. and S. I didn't hear anything about the opera. He wasn't got up for it. Just a business suit. But, Lord bless you, he didn't do it. He isn't that kind. Nice, free-handed feller." "No, of course not. I wouldn't believe it, not if you told me so. Let me see. Where did I hear he lives?" "I don't rightly know. Somewhere in the neighbourhood." "So I thought and his first name is?" "I've forgotten. Hold on! Keith! That's it. Keith Lennox. Are you going to see him? P'raps he can set you straight." "P'raps he can." "But don't let on about me, my friend." "Not on your life," replied his friend, who added: "Where's your hat?" "My hat!" Mr. Johnson surprisedly exclaimed. Affably that friend of his nodded. "Ever been to Headquarters? Well, you're going there now!" Then, presently, the captain and his friend ascended a stairway, down which, a few hours later, hoarse voices came. "Extra! Extra!" XXX At the Athenaeum, that afternoon, members gathered together, buttonholed each other, talked it over and so importantly that, if you had not known better, you might have thought the war a minor event. It gave one rather a clear idea of the parochialism of clubland. But then, to discuss the affairs of people who never heard of you is, essentially, a social act. Meanwhile the shouted extras had told of Lennox' arrest. The evening papers supplied the evidence. In them you read that Lennox had said he would "do" for Paliser, that in his possession had been found a stiletto, an opera-check, together with a will, and that, when apprehended, he had been effecting what is called a getaway. There you had the threat, the instrument, the opportunity and what more could you ask, except the motive? As for the rest, it was damning. On that point foregathering members agreed--with one exception. In a seated group was Jones. His neighbours alarmed him. They belonged, he thought, to a very dangerous class, to a class which a sociologist defined as the most dangerous of all--to the stupid. According to them, Lennox was not merely guilty, he was worse. He had besplattered the club with the blood of a man who, hang it all, whether you liked him or not, was also a member. The Athenaeum would become a byword. Already, no doubt, it was known as the Assassin's. Et cetera and so forth. The group thinned, increased, thinned again, scattered. Jones, alone with a survivor, addressed him. "How is my handsome friend to-day?" Verelst turned impatiently. "In no mood for jesting. I ought to have hurried him off. Now he is in jail."