“Gentlemen,” said Amber, standing with his back to the wall, “you can have a rough house, and the police in, or you can allow me to stay.” “Put him out!” Lambaire was in authority there. His face was puckered and creased with anger, and he pointed to the trespasser. “Put him out. George----” Amber’s hands were in his pockets. “I shall shoot,” he said quietly, and there was a silence and a move backward. Even the pugilistic janitor hesitated. “I have come for a quiet evening’s amusement,” Amber went on. “I’m an old member of the club, and I’m treated like a split[1]; most unfriendly!” He shook his head reprovingly. His eyes were wandering from face to face; he knew many who were there, though they might not know him. He saw the boy, white of face, limp, and half asleep, sprawling in a chair at Lambaire’s table. “Sutton,” he said loudly, “Sutton, my buck, wake up and identify your old friend.” Gradually the excitement was wearing down. Lambaire jerked his head to the door-keeper and reluctantly he retired. “We don’t want any fuss,” said the big man; he scowled at the imperturbable stranger. “We don’t know you; you’ve forced your way in here, and if you’re a gentleman you’ll retire.” “I’m not a gentleman,” said Amber calmly. “I’m one of yourselves.” He made his way to where the youth half sat, half lay, and shook him. “I came to see my friend,” he said, “and a jolly nice mess some of you people have made of him.” He turned a stern face to the crowd. “I’m going to take him away,” he said suddenly. His strength was surprising, for with one arm he lifted the boy to his feet. “Stop!” Lambaire was between him and the door. “You leave that young fellow here--and clear.” Amber’s answer was characteristic. With his disengaged hand, he lifted a chair, swung it once in a circle round his head, and sent it smashing through the window. They heard the faint crackle of it as it struck the street below, the tinkle of falling glass, and then a police whistle. Lambaire stood back from the door and flung it open. “You can go,” he said between his teeth. “I shall remember you.” “If you don’t,” said Amber, with his arm round the boy, “you’ve got a jolly bad memory.” CHAPTER III INTRODUCES PETER, THE ROMANCIST Amber had £86 10_s._--a respectable sum. He had an invitation to take tea with Cynthia Sutton at five o’clock in the afternoon. He had thought to hand the money to her on behalf of her brother--on second thoughts he decided to send the young man’s losses to him anonymously. After all he was adjudging those losses by approximation. He had a pleasant room in Bloomsbury, a comfortable armchair, a long, thin, mild cigar and an amusing book, and he was happy. His feet rested on a chair, a clock ticked--not unmusically--it was a situation that makes for reverie, day-dreams, and sleep. His condition of mind might be envied by many a more useful member of society, for it was one of complete and absolute complaisance.