You know what this is, of course?” he said to Geoffrey.  “Action for breach of promise of marriage.  Our client, Miss Yvonne Sinclair, of the Regal Theatre, is suing you for ten thousand pounds.  And, if you ask me,” said the young man with genial candour, dropping the professional manner, “I don’t mind telling you, I think it’s a walk-over!  It’s the best little action for breach we’ve handled for years.”  He became professional again.  “Your lawyers will no doubt communicate with us in due course.  And, if you take my advice,” he concluded, with another of his swift changes of manner, “you’ll get ’em to settle out of court, for, between me and you and the lamp-post, you haven’t an earthly!”

Geoffrey had started to his feet.  He was puffing with outraged innocence.

“What the devil do you mean by this?” he demanded.  “Can’t you see you’ve made a mistake?  My name is not Gray.  This lady has told you that I am Geoffrey Raymond!”

“Makes it all the worse for you,” said the young man imperturbably, “making advances to our client under an assumed name.  We’ve got letters and witnesses and the whole bag of tricks.  And how about this photo?” He dived into the bag again.  “Do you recognize that, miss?”

Maud looked at the photograph.  It was unmistakably Geoffrey.  And it had evidently been taken recently, for it showed the later Geoffrey, the man of substance.  It was a full-length photograph and across the stout legs was written in a flowing hand the legend, “To Babe from her little Pootles”.  Maud gave a shudder and handed it back to the young man, just as Geoffrey, reaching across the table, made a grab for it.

“I recognize it,” she said.

Mr. Willoughby junior packed the photograph away in his bag, and turned to go.

“That’s all for today, then, I think,” he said, affably.

He bowed again in his courtly way, tilted the hat a little more to the left, and, having greeted one of the distressed gentlewomen who loitered limply in his path with a polite “If you please, Mabel!” which drew upon him a freezing stare of which he seemed oblivious, he passed out, leaving behind him strained silence.

Maud was the first to break it.

“I think I’ll be going,” she said.

The words seemed to rouse her companion from his stupor.

“Let me explain!”

“There’s nothing to explain.”

“It was just a . . . it was just a passing . . .  It was nothing . . . nothing.”

“Pootles!” murmured Maud.

Geoffrey followed her as she moved to the door.

“Be reasonable!” pleaded Geoffrey.  “Men aren’t saints!  It was nothing! . . .  Are you going to end . . . everything . . . just because I lost my head?”

Maud looked at him with a smile.  She was conscious of an overwhelming relief.  The dim interior of Ye Cosy Nooke no longer seemed depressing.  She could have kissed this unknown “Babe” whose businesslike action had enabled her to close a regrettable chapter in her life with a clear conscience.