"With a vanilla bean," directed the other man. "I don't like coffee otherwise. And hurry up, please!" Then, when the servant departed, he turned suavely to his host. "I forget what we were talking about." "So do I," retorted Vernon coolly. Maunders, smoking delicately, rested his wrists on the copper edge of the table and looked searchingly into his friend's strong face. And Vernon's face was strong--much stronger than that of his companion. He likewise had blue eyes, but of a deep-sea blue, less shallow and more piercing than those of Maunders. His face was also oval, with finely cut features, but more scored with thought-marks; and his hair was as dark, smooth, and short-cropped as that of the other's was golden, curly, and--odd adjective to use in connection with a man--fluffy. Both were clean-shaven, but Vernon's mouth was firm, while the lips of Maunders were less compressed and betrayed indecision. The former had the more athletic figure, the latter a more graceful one, and although both were well groomed and well dressed, Vernon was less of the dandy in his attention to detail. Poetically speaking, one man was Night and the other Day; but a keen observer would have read that the first used strength of body and brain to achieve his ends, while the last relied more on cunning. And from the looks of the twain, cunning and strength were about to try conclusions. Yet they had been child-friends, school-friends, and--so far as their paths ran parallel--were life-friends, with certain reservations. "You were always as deep as a well, Arty," said Maunders, finally removing his eyes from the other's face and turning to take his cup of coffee. "Don't call me Arty!" snapped Vernon irritably. "You were Arty at Eton, when we were boys, tall and short." "We are not at Eton now. I always think that there is something weak in a man being called by his Christian name outside his family--much less being ticketed with a confounded diminutive." "You can call me Conny if you like, as you used to." "I shan't, or even Constantine. Maunders is good enough for me." "Oh is he?" The fair man glanced shrewdly over the coffee-cup he was holding to his lips. "You hold to that." "I hold to the name, not to the individual," said Vernon curtly. "You don't trust me." "I don't. I see no reason to trust you." "Ah, you will when I explain why I asked you to meet me here," said Maunders in his frivolous manner. "I daresay; go on." His friend sighed. "What a laconic beast you are, Arty." "My name is Vernon, if you please." "Always Vernon?" asked Maunders in silky tones. The other man sat up alertly. "What do you mean?" "I mean that I want you to take me into partnership." "Partnership!" Vernon's face grew an angry red. "What the devil do you know?"