appeared a third bottle; by this time, Piers was drinking without heed to results; jovially, mechanically, glass after glass, talking, too, in a strain of nebulous imaginativeness.  There could be little doubt, he hinted, that one of his Parliamentary friends (John Jacks had been insensibly multiplied) would give him a friendly lift.  A secretaryship was sure to come pretty quickly, and then, who knew what opening might present itself!  He wouldn’t mind a consulship, for a year or two, at some agreeable place.  But eventually—­who could doubt it?—­he would enter the House.  “Why, of course!” cried Alexander; the outline of his career was plain beyond discussion.  And let him go in strong for Home Rule.  That would be the great question for the next few years, until it was triumphantly settled.  Private information—­from a source only to be hinted at—­assured him that Mr. Gladstone (after the recent defeat) was already hard at work preparing another Bill.  Come now, they must drink Home Rule—­ “Justice to Ireland, and the world-supremacy of the British Empire!” —­that was his toast.  They interrupted their sipping of green Chartreuse to drink it in brimming glasses of claret.

“We’ll drive you to Queen’s Gate!” said Alexander, when Piers began to look at his watch.  “No hurry, my boy!  The night is young!  ‘And’” —­he broke into lyric quotation—­“’haply the Queen Moon is on her throne, clustered around with all her starry fays.’—­I shall never forget this dinner; shall you, Biddy?  We’ll have a song when we get home.”

One little matter had to be attended to, the paying of the bill.  Having glanced carelessly at the total, Alexander began to search his pockets.

“Why, hang it!” he exclaimed.  “What a fellow I am!  Piers, it’s really too absurd, but I shall have to ask you to lend me a sovereign; I can’t make up enough—­stupid carelessness!  Biddy, why didn’t you ask me if I’d got money?—­No, no; just a sovereign, Piers; I have the rest.  I’ll pay you back to-morrow morning.”

With laughter at such a capital joke, Piers disbursed the coin.  Quaint, comical fellow, this brother of his I He liked him, and was beginning to like Biddy too.

A cab bore them all to Queen’s Gate, Alexander and his wife making the journey just for the fun of the thing.  Piers would have paid for the vehicle back to Theobald’s Road, but this his brother declined; he and Mrs. Otway preferred the top of a ’bus this warm night.  They parted at Mr. Jacks’ door, where carriages and cabs were stopping every minute or two.

“I’ll sit up for you, Piers,” roared Alexander genially.  “You’ll want a whisky-and-soda after this job.  Come along, Biddy!”

In another frame of mind, Piers would have felt the impropriety of these loud remarks at such a moment.  Even as it was, he would doubtless have regretted the incident had he turned his head to observe the two persons who had just alighted and were moving up the steps close behind him.  A young, slim, perfectly equipped man, with features expressive of the most becoming sentiment; a lady—­or girl—­of admirable figure, with bright, intelligent, handsome face.  These two exchanged a look; they exchanged a discreet murmur; and were careful not to overtake Piers Otway in the hall.