“No, sir, not as I knows of,” stammered the waiter.  “I have just come on.”

“Where is Jacques, the man who usually waits on me?” demanded Wickersham, half angrily.

“Jacques est souffrant.  Il est tres malade.”

Wickersham grunted.  “Well, take this,” he said, “and remember that if you serve me properly there will be a good deal more to follow.”

The waiter thanked him profusely.

“Now, get down and be on the lookout, and when a lady comes and asks for 21, show her up immediately.  If she asks who is here, tell her two gentlemen and a lady.  You understand?”

The waiter bowed his assent and retired.  Wickersham came in and closed the door behind him.

He had just thrown his coat on a chair, laid his hat on the mantelpiece, and was twirling his moustache at the mirror above it, when he caught sight in the mirror of Keith.  Keith had stepped out behind him from the recess, and was standing by the table, quietly looking at him.  He gave an exclamation and turned quickly.

“Hah!  What is this?  You here!  What are you doing here?  There is some mistake.”  He glanced at the door.

“No, there is no mistake,” said Keith, advancing; “I am waiting for you.”

“For me!  Waiting for me?” he demanded, mystified.

“Yes.  Did you not tell the waiter just now a gentleman was here?  I confess you do not seem very pleased to see me.”

“You have read my looks correctly,” said Wickersham, who was beginning to recover himself, and with it his scornful manner.  “You are the last person on earth I wish to see—­ever.  I do not know that I should weep if I never had that pleasure again.”

Keith bowed.

“I think it probable.  You may, hereafter, have even less cause for joy at meeting me.”

“Impossible,” said Wickersham.

Keith put his hand on a chair, and prepared to sit down, motioning Wickersham to take the other seat.

“The lady you are waiting for will not be here this evening,” he said, “and it may be that our interview will be protracted.”

Wickersham passed by the last words.

“What lady?  Who says I am waiting for a lady?”

“You said so at the door just now.  Besides, I say so.”

“Oh!  You were listening, were you?” he sneered.

“Yes; I heard it.”

“How do you know she will not be here?  What do you know about it?”

“I know that she will no more be here than the Countess Torelli will,” said Keith.  He was looking Wickersham full in the face and saw that the shot went home.

“What do you want?” demanded Wickersham.  “Why are you here?  Are you after money or a row?”

“I want you—­I want you, first, to secure all of Mrs. Wentworth’s money that you have had, or as much as you can.”

Wickersham was so taken aback that his dark face turned almost white, but he recovered himself quickly.