"Exactly. That’s what I want. You’re a dear," replied the man, and the widow left to prepare it. A few minutes later she returned with a small glass on a silver tray. He took it, and swallowed the contents at two gulps. "By Jove! Excellent. Johnnie at the Ritz couldn’t make a better, Ena. But you were always famed for your corpse-revivers!" "Glad you like it. Now get away at once, or you’ll have no time." "Mind the glass!" he said in a serious voice. "I’ll see after it all right, never fear. You do your work and I do mine—eh? Now get away, and don’t arrive before a quarter to eight or so." "Yours to obey, Ena," was his response, and he at once slipped out by the servants’ entrance into the mews, and, hailing a taxi a few minutes later, drove to Pont Street. On arrival he at once met his wife, who was anxiously awaiting him in the drawing-room. "All right, Lilla! Don’t worry. Things all go well," he assured her. "I’ve seen Ena, and we shall have a very delightful dinner. We go to the new revue at the Hippodrome afterwards, and then on to Giro’s for supper—a very delightful evening." "And then——?" asked his wife, looking him straight in the face. "Well—and then a little affair of business—eh?" Lilla laughed at the grimace her husband made. Boyne left her at once, and ascending to his bedroom, shaved, exchanged his clothes for a smart evening suit, and carefully brushed his hair, until, when he descended, he presented the ideal man-about-town whose evening clothes were well worn and who wore his soft-fronted shirt as one accustomed to it every night. The man unused to the claw-hammer coat is always to be noticed in a crowd, just as is the woman who, putting on an evening frock occasionally, hitches it up on the shoulder and is palpably uncomfortable in it. Bernard Boyne wore his clothes, whether the dusty suit of the Hammersmith insurance agent or the smart evening clothes in which he pursued his nocturnal peregrinations in the West End, with equal grace and ease. When he rejoined his wife in the pretty drawing-room he presented a very different figure from the man who had sat in that ugly white cloak with the slits for eyes in that dingy, creeper-covered house in Hammersmith. He rang the bell, and, ordering a taxi, lit a cigarette, and awaited it. Lilla was splendidly dressed in a gown of navy blue and gold brocade, cut very low, with shoes and stockings to match. In her hair was a long osprey which well matched the gorgeous gown, the latest creation of Petticoat Lane—the writer begs pardon of his lady readers for such irreverent mention of Dover Street, Piccadilly, that street in which the latest fashions of feminine frippery have their birth, and to which the mere man sends his cheques in consequence of recurring crazes. When together in the taxi, Lilla said: "Now be extremely careful. This Scotch woman is very canny. Remember that! If we made a slip it would land us all in—well, at a very dead end."