At this Mr. Pedlow again threw back his head and roared, his vast body so shaken with mirth that the glass he held in his hand dropped to the floor.

“There,” said Cooley, “that’s the second Martini you’ve spilled.  You’re two behind the rest of us.”

“What of it?” bellowed the fat man.  “There’s plenty comin’, ain’t there?  Four more, Tommy, and bring cigars.  Don’t take a cent from none of these Indians.  Gentlemen, your money ain’t good here.  I own this bar, and this is my night.”

Mellin had begun to feel at ease, and after a time—­as they continued to sit—­he realized that his repugnance to Mr. Pedlow was wearing off; he felt that there must be good in any one whom Madame de Vaurigard liked.  She had spoken of Pedlow often on their drives; he was an “eccentric,” she said, an “original.”  Why not accept her verdict?  Besides, Pedlow was a man of distinction and force; he had been in Congress; he was a millionaire; and, as became evident in the course of a long recital of the principal events of his career, most of the great men of the time were his friends and proteges.

“‘Well, Mack,’ says I one day when we were in the House together”—­(thus Mr. Pedlow, alluding to the late President McKinley)—­“‘Mack,’ says I, ‘if you’d drop that double standard business’—­he was waverin’ toward silver along then—­’I don’t know but I might git the boys to nominate you fer President.’  ‘I’ll think it over,’ he says—­’I’ll think it over.’  You remember me tellin’ you about that at the time, don’t you, Sneyd, when you was in the British Legation at Washin’ton?”

“Pahfictly,” said Mr. Sneyd, lighting a cigar with great calmness.

“‘Yes,’ I says, ‘Mack,’ I says, ’if you’ll drop it, I’ll turn in and git you the nomination.’”

“Did he drop it?” asked Mellin innocently.

Mr. Pedlow leaned forward and struck the young man’s knee a resounding blow with the palm of his hand.

“He was nominated, wasn’t he?”

“Time to dress,” announced Mr. Sneyd, looking at his watch.

“One more round first,” insisted Cooley with prompt vehemence.  “Let’s finish with our first toast again.  Can’t drink that too often.”

This proposition was received with warmest approval, and they drank standing.  “Brightest and best!” shouted Mr. Pedlow.

“Queen!  What she is!” exclaimed Cooley.

"Ma belle Marquise!" whispered Mellin tenderly, as the rim touched his lips.

A small, keen-faced man, whose steady gray eyes were shielded by tortoise-rimmed spectacles, had come into the room and now stood quietly at the bar, sipping a glass of Vichy.  He was sharply observant of the party as it broke up, Pedlow and Sneyd preceding the younger men to the corridor, and, as the latter turned to follow, the stranger stepped quickly forward, speaking Cooley’s name.

“What’s the matter?”

“Perhaps you don’t remember me.  My name’s Cornish.  I’m a newspaper man, a correspondent.” (He named a New York paper.) “I’m down here to get a Vatican story.  I knew your father for a number of years before his death, and I think I may claim that he was a friend of mine.”