“I beg your pardon?” he said, in the cultured tones he knew so well how to use, yet of which he made so little use of late.

“I said, where have you been?” remarked the other.  “We’ve missed you.”

“I have been spending a week end in the country,” King remarked, with biting sarcasm.  “Found I was getting a bit stale in my golf, don’t you know—­” there was a momentary pause while he regained the use of his treacherous tongue, then he went on—­“I caught myself foozling a few putts, and I concluded I needed to work back up to form.”

There was a laugh at this, for scarcely one in the gilded grill but knew where King had been, and whither he was going.  But the laugh was instantly hushed at the look that flashed from his eyes toward those who had indulged in the mirth.

King had a nasty temper that grew worse with his indulgence in drink, and it was clear that he had been indulging and intended to continue.

“I said I was—­golfing,” he went on, exceedingly distinctly, though with an effort.  “And now, Cat,” and he nodded patronizingly to the white-aproned and respectful bartender, “will you be kind enough to see what my friends will be pleased to order that they may pour out a libation to—­let us say Polonius!”

“Why Polonius?” some one asked.

“Because, dear friend,” replied King softly, “he somewhat resembles a certain person here, who talks too much, but who is not so wise as he thinks.  And now—­” he raised his glass—­“to all the gods that on Olympus dwell!”

And they drank with him.

Nodding and smiling at his friends, who thronged about him, standing under the gay lights which reflected from costly oil paintings, Harry King plunged his hand into his pocket to pay the bill, a check for which the bartender had thrust toward him.

“Gad, but he’s got a wad!” somebody whispered, as King pulled forth a great roll of bills, together with a number of gold and silver coins.

There was a rattle of coins on the mahogany bar as King sought to disentangle a single bill from the wadded-up currency in his pocket.

Some coins fell to the floor and rolled in the direction of the table whereat sat the colonel and Mr. Kettridge.  The latter, with a pitying smile on his face, leaned over to pick them up.  As he did so, and brought a piece of money up into the light, a curious look came over his face.  He stared at the coin.

“What is it?” asked Colonel Ashley, noting the unusual look.

“It’s—­it’s an odd coin—­an old Roman one—­that Mrs. Darcy had in her private collection, kept in the jewelry store safe,” was the whispered answer.  “I went over them the other day and noticed some were missing, though I saw them all when I paid a visit to her just a short time before she was killed.”

“Was this odd coin in her collection?” asked the colonel, as he looked at the piece which Kettridge handed him.  It was of considerable value to a collector.