Not to be balked of the denouement of the little comedy in real life for which he had provided the audience, the American grabbed the hall porter. "Say," he said, "do you know that gentleman?" "Yes, sir. That is Mr. Mark Bower." Spencer beamed on the man as though he had just discovered that Mr. Mark Bower was his dearest friend. "Well, now, if that isn't the queerest thing!" he said. "Is that Mark? He's just gone round to the Wellington Theater, I guess. How far is it from here?" "Not a hundred yards, sir." Off went Spencer, without his hat. He had intended to follow in a cab, but a sprint would be more effective over such a short distance. He crossed the Strand without heed to the traffic, turned to the right, and, to use his own phrase, "butted into a policeman" at the first corner. "I'm on the hunt for the Wellington Theater," he explained. "You needn't hunt much farther," said the constable good humoredly. "There it is, a little way up on the left." At that instant Spencer saw Bower raise his hat to the two women. They hurried inside the theater, and their escort turned to reenter his motor. The American had learned what he wanted to know. Miss Jaques had shaken off her presumed admirer, and Miss Wynton had aided and abetted her in the deed. "You don't say!" he exclaimed, gazing at the building admiringly. "It looks new. In fact the whole street has a kind of San Francisco-after-the-fire appearance." "That's right, sir. It's not so long since some of the worst slums in London were pulled down to make way for it." "It's fine; but I'm rather stuck on antiquities. I've seen plenty of last year's palaces on the other side. Have a drink, will you, when time's up?" The policeman glanced surreptitiously at the half-crown which Spencer insinuated into his palm, and looked after the donor as he went back to the hotel. "Well, I'm jiggered!" he said to himself. "I've often heard tell of the way some Americans see London; but I never came across a chap who rushed up in his bare head and took a squint at any place in that fashion. He seemed to have his wits about him too; but there must be a screw loose somewhere." And indeed Charles K. Spencer, had he paused to take stock of his behavior, must have admitted that it was, to say the least, erratic. But his imagination was fired; his sympathies were all a-quiver with the thought that it lay within his power to share with a kin soul some small part of the good fortune that had fallen to his lot of late.