“I know it!  There you sit, savoring your Burgundy, idling over a cigar, happy, care free, fancy free, at liberty, as you believe, to roam off anywhere at any time and continue the eternal hunt for pleasure!  That’s what you think!  Ha!  Tommy, I know better!  That’s not the sort of man I see sitting on the same chair where you are now sprawling in such content!  I see a doomed man, already in the shadow of the altar, wasting his time unsuspiciously while Chance comes whirling into the city behind a Long Island locomotive, and Fate, the footman, sits outside ready to follow him, and Destiny awaits him no matter what he does, what he desires, where he goes, wherever he turns to-night!  Destiny awaits him at his journey’s end!”

“Very fine,” said Kerns admiringly.  “Too bad it’s due to the Burgundy.”

“Never mind what my eloquence is due to,” retorted Gatewood, “the fact remains that this is probably your last bachelor dinner.  Kerns, old fellow!  Here’s to her!  Bless her!  I—­I wish sincerely that we knew who she is and where to send those roses.  Anyway, here’s to the bride!”

He stood up very gravely and drank the toast, then, reseating himself, tapped the empty glass gently against the table’s edge until it broke.

“You are certainly doing your part well,” said Kerns admiringly.  Then he swallowed the remainder of his Burgundy and looked up at the club clock.

“Eleven,” he said with regret.  “I’ve about time to go to Eighty-third Street, get my suit case, and catch my train at 125th Street.”  To a servant he said, “Call a hansom,” then rose and sauntered downstairs to the cloakroom, where presently both men stood, hatted and gloved, swinging their sticks.

“That was a fool bet you made,” began Kerns; “I’ll release you, Jack.”

“Sorry, but I must insist on holding you,” replied Gatewood, laughing.  “You’re going to your doom.  Come on!  I’ll see you as far as the cab door.”

They walked out, and Kerns gave the cabby the street and number and entered the hansom.

“Now,” said Gatewood, “you’re in for it!  You’re done for!  You can’t help yourself!  I’ve won my twelve-gauge trap gun already, and I’ll have to set you up in table silver, anyway, so it’s an even break.  You’re all in, Tommy!  The Tracer is on your trail!”

In the beginning of a flippant retort Kerns experienced a curious sensation of hesitation.  Something in Gatewood’s earnestness, in his jeering assurance and delighted certainty, made him, for one moment, feel doubtful, even uncomfortable.

“What nonsense you talk,” he said, recovering his equanimity.  “Nothing on earth can prevent me driving to 38 East Eighty-third Street, getting my luggage, and taking the Boston express.  Your Tracer doesn’t intend to stop my hansom and drag me into a cave, does he?  You haven’t put knock-outs into that Burgundy, have you?  Then what in the dickens are you laughing at?”