Mr. Waddington mopped his forehead with his handkerchief.

“Burton,” he said hoarsely, “I think it’s coming on!  I’m glad we are going to the Milan.  I wish we could go to a music-hall to-night.  That woman was attractive!”

Burton set his teeth.

“I can’t help it,” he muttered.  “I can’t help anything.  Here goes for a good time!”

He dismissed the taxi and entered the Milan, swaggering just a little.  They lunched together and neither showed their usual discrimination in the selection of the meal.  In place of the light wine which Mr. Waddington generally chose, they had champagne.  They drank Benedictine with their coffee and smoked cigars instead of cigarettes.  Their conversation was a trifle jerky and Mr. Waddington kept on returning to the subject of the Menatogen Company.

“You know, I’ve three beans left, Burton,” he explained, towards the end of the meal.  “I don’t know why I should keep them.  They’d only last a matter of seven months, anyway.  I’ve got to go back sometime.  Do you think I could get in with you in the company?”

“We’ll go and—­Why, there is Mr. Bunsome!” Burton exclaimed.  “Mr. Bunsome!”

The company promoter was just passing their table.  He turned around at the sound of his name.  For a moment he failed to recognize Burton.  There was very little likeness between the pale, contemptuous young man with the dreamy eyes, who had sat opposite to him at the professor’s dinner table a few nights ago, and this flushed young man who had just attracted his attention, and who had evidently been lunching exceedingly well.  It was part of his business, however, to remember faces, and his natural aptitude came to his assistance.

“How do you do, Mr. Burton?” he said.  “Glad to meet you again.  Spending some of the Menatogen profits, eh?”

“Friend of mine here—­Mr. Waddington,” Burton explained.  “Mr. Cowper knows all about him.  He owns the rest of the beans, you know.”

Mr. Bunsome was at once interested.

“I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Waddington!” he declared, holding out his hand.  “Indirectly, you are connected with one of the most marvelous discoveries of modern days.”

“I should like to make it ‘directly,’” Mr. Waddington said.  “Do you think my three beans would get me in on the ground floor?”

Mr. Bunsome was a little surprised.

“I understood from the professor,” he remarked, “that your friend was not likely to care about entering into this?”

Burton, for a moment, half closed his eyes.

“I remember,” he said.  “Last night I didn’t think he would care about it.  I find I was mistaken.”

Mr. Bunsome looked at his watch.

“I am meeting Mr. Cowper this afternoon,” he said, “and Mr. Bomford.  I know that the greatest difficulty that we have to face at present is the very minute specimens of this wonderful—­er—­vegetable, from which we have to prepare the food.  I should think it very likely that we might be able to offer you an interest in return for your beans.  Will you call at my office, Mr. Waddington, at ten o’clock to-morrow morning—­number 17, Norfolk Street?”