There was a sudden thumping of hands upon the table until the glasses rattled.  Power’s face showed not a single sign of anger.  He was simply puzzled.  He had come into touch with something which he could not understand.  There was Bridges, earning a salary at his theatre, to be thrown out into the streets or made a star of, according to his whim; Heselton, a family man, drawing his salary, and a good one, too, also from the theatre; men whose faces were familiar to him—­some of them, he knew, on newspapers in which he owned a controlling interest.  The power of which he had bragged was a real enough thing.  What had come to these men that they failed to recognise it?—­to this slim young boy of an Englishman that he dared to defy him?

“Pretty queer crowd, you boys,” he muttered.

Philip, who had been waiting by the door, came a few steps back again.

“Mr. Power,” he said, “I don’t know much about you, and you don’t seem to know anything at all about us.  I am only at present a member by courtesy of this club, but it isn’t often that any one has reason to complain of lack of hospitality here.  If you take my advice, you’ll apologise to these gentlemen for your shockingly bad behaviour when you came in.  Tell them that you weren’t quite yourself, and I’ll stand you a drink myself.”

“That goes,” Honeybrook assented gravely.  “It’s up to you, sir.”

Mr. Sylvanus Power felt that he had wandered into a cul-de-sac.  He had found his way into one of those branch avenues leading from the great road of his imperial success.  He was man enough to know when to turn back.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I offer you my apologies.  I came here in a furious temper and a little drunk.  I retract all that I said.  I’ll drink to your club, if you’ll allow me the privilege.”

Willing hands filled his tumbler, and grateful ones forced a glass between Philip’s fingers.  None of them really wanted Sylvanus Power for an enemy.

“Here’s looking at you all,” the latter said.  “Luck!” he muttered, glancing towards Philip.

They all drank as though it were a rite.  Philip and Sylvanus Power set their glasses down almost at the same moment.  Philip turned towards the door.

“I am at your service now, Mr. Power,” he announced.  “Good night, you fellows!”

There was a new ring of friendliness in the hearty response which came from every corner of the room.

“Goodnight, Ware!”

“So long, old fellow!”

“Good night, old chap!”

There was a little delay in the cloakroom while the attendant searched for Philip’s hat, which had been temporarily misplaced.  Honeybrook, who had followed the two men out of the room, fumbling for a moment in his locker and, coming over to Philip, dropped something into the latter’s overcoat pocket.

“Rather like a scene in a melodrama, isn’t it, Ware,” he whispered, “but I know a little about Sylvanus Power.  It’s only a last resource, mind.”