* * * * * Sir Robert walked swiftly to Oxford Street, where he found a cab. He ordered the man to drive him to the Sheridan Club. On the way he stopped at Charing Cross Station and ordered his luggage to be sent home at once to his house in Upper Berkeley Street. He had only been in London two or three hours, having crossed from Calais that afternoon. He washed when he had arrived at the famous club, and then went up-stairs to the grill-room for some supper. It was the hour when the Sheridan is full of the upper Bohemian world. Great actors and musicians, a judge on his way through town from one watering-place to another,--for it was now the long vacation,--a good many well-known journalists, all sorts and conditions of men. All were eminent in their work, for that was a condition of membership. Llwellyn was welcomed on all sides, though men noticed that he seemed preoccupied. His healthy appearance was commented on, his face browned, as was supposed, by the sun of the Riviera, his general fitness of manner and carriage. He took supper by himself at a small table, choosing the menu with his usual extreme care, and more than once summoning the head waiter to conference. Although he kept glancing at his watch, as if expecting an arrival, he made a good meal, mixing his own salad of crisp white lettuce with deliberation. He had sent a page early on his arrival to find out if Mr. Constantine Schuabe was in the club. He was standing at the desk in the middle of the room, paying his bill, when the swing-doors were pushed open and Schuabe entered. He was in evening dress and carried a light overcoat on his arm. Llwellyn gathered up his change and went to meet him. Had there been an attentive observer to mark the meeting of the two men he would have perhaps been a little surprised at the fashion of it. Although Llwellyn was a six-months' stranger to London, and the meeting between the two men was obviously prearranged, _neither of the two men smiled as they shook hands_. Both were expectant of each other, pale, almost with some apprehension, it might have been fancied; and though the meeting seemed a relief to each, there was little human kindliness in it. "Come down to the Hotel," said Schuabe; "we can't possibly say anything here, every room is full." They walked out of the club together, two figures of noticeable distinction, very obviously belonging to the ruling classes of England. The millionaire's pale and beautiful face was worn and lined. "Schuabe seems a bit done up," one man in the hall said to another as the two friends passed through. "Heat, I suppose," answered his companion. "Handsome chap, though; doesn't seem to care for anything worth having, only books and politics and that. Wish I'd his money."