“All to myself!” thought J. Willoughby, with a mental smack of the lips. Then he began, in that congratulatory tone of voice with which practised interviewers corkscrew admissions out of their victims: “We heard about your trip from Seattle, and about your--er--baggage. Would you mind telling me a little more about it? We could”--with a honeyed grin at Stewart--“sit down in a nice little corner of the café and have a nice little chat.” “I don't mind--if you don't,” said Jemingham, with one of those diffidently eager smiles of people who are doing you a favor and do not know it. The reporter led the way to the café, selected a small table in the farthest corner, beckoned to a waiter, pointed to a chair, and nodded toward the Alaskan Monte Cristo. “Thank you!” said Jemingham, with real gratitude, and sat down. Then he looked at his watch, saw that it was only four o'clock, and said to the waiter, “A cup of tea, please.” “Huh?” It was all J. Willoughby could rise to. A miner and tea? What about the free champagne for the hundreds? A tea-drinker would not scatter walnut-sized diamonds along the Great White Way. “I got used to it. My pal was English. We found it preferable to whisky in the Klondike.” Mr. Jerningham made no effort to disguise the apologetic tone. “I'll have the same,” cleverly said J. Willoughby. Then, to clinch it, “Of course you know that in the exclusive clubs to-day men drink more tea than liquor!” “It's the proper thing--eh?” said Jerningham, with a sort of head-waiter deference that made the reporter stare in surprise. “I am glad you told me that.” “Oh yes. It is no longer good form to get load--er--intoxicated. It's one of the few good things we've got from England--tea-drinking,” the reporter said. “And, Mr. Jerningham, to get back to our subject, just how did you happen to go to the Klondike?” “It began in New York,” said Jerningham, and drew his lips together. It was clearly not a pleasant memory. “It did?” You could tell that J. Willoughby was grateful. “Well, well! And--” He frowned as though a date had escaped him. He really suggested time to the miner, for Jerningham volunteered: “When I was twelve years old.” “That's about twenty years ago,” ventured the reporter in the affirmative tone of voice that inevitably elicits contradiction and the exact figures from the victim. “Thirty-two years ago, sir.” “Well, well! And--How did you say it began?” The reporter put his hand to his ear to show that his hardness of hearing had prevented him from getting Jerningham's previous answer to the same question. “My father!” Mr. Jemingham nodded twice, to show that those two words told the whole story. “Ah, yes! And then?” The reporter looked as if instant death Would follow the non-receipt of information; and Jerningham, as though against a lifelong determination to be silent, spoke--and frowned as he spoke: