These things Philip Bommaney junior attentively noted. At first the clubmen rather wondered at him. He was in their precincts often, and would smoke his pipe and watch whatever game might be going with tranquil interest, but he never played, and could not be induced to bet. _Que diable faisant-il dans cette gaière?_ the clubmen wanted to know. He never told them, and in a while they grew accustomed to him and his ways. He continued his quiet watch upon Mr. Barter, and included Steinberg in his field of observation. One evening, dining at the old restaurant, he marked Barter, melancholy and alone. He was sitting in an attitude of apparent dejection, tapping upon the table with a fork, and deep sunk in what seemed to be an uncomfortable contemplation. But when the moth saw his candle he brightened, and fluttered over to it. ‘You might come over,’ said Barter, when they had sat together until the latest of the dining guests had gone away. ‘You might come over to my chambers and smoke a cigar if you’ve nothing else to do. I don’t care about going down to the club tonight.’ The Steinberg spider was supposed to be waiting there, coldly patient and insatiable, and Barter dreaded him. Philip had never entered the rooms, but they had an attraction for him. He accepted his companion’s invitation, and they entered the chambers together. A fire lingered in the grate, and Barter replenished it, and, having produced a box of cigars and a bottle of cognac, proffered refreshment to his guest. The honest man began somewhat to recoil from himself and from his companion. What was he there for? The answer was pretty evident. There was nothing between this loud-babbling youth and himself which could have drawn them into even a momentary comradeship, if it had not been for the suspicion his father’s story had inspired in him. Frankly, he was there because he suspected the man, because he desired to watch him, because, if he found the chance, he was willing to set him in the dock. To smoke his tobacco and drink his liquor in those circumstances had undoubtedly an air of treachery. In a while he hardened himself, and closed his ears to all casuist pleadings, whether for or against the course he had adopted. He would clear his father if he could, and if there were any mere hope of doing it, he would watch this fellow as a cat watches a mouse, and would go on doing it until both of them were gray. ‘By the way,’ said Barter innocently, ‘do you never take a hand at----’ His supple fingers supplied the hiatus, dealing out an imaginary pack of cards with the flourishing dexterity native to them. ‘That’s what I’m here for, is it?’ thought Philip in his own mind. ‘We shall see.’ He said aloud, ‘Sometimes,’ in an indifferent tone. ‘There’s nothing worth seeing anywhere to-night,’ said young Barter. ‘Suppose we try a hand. What do you say to a game at Napoleon?’ Philip consented, and his host produced two packs of cards from the business safe.