At eleven o’clock Pettingill’s studio opened its doors to the “Little Sons” and their guests, and the last “Dutch lunch” was soon under way.  Brewster had paid for it early in the evening and when he sat down at the head of the table there was not a penny in his pockets.  A year ago, at the same hour, he and the “Little Sons” were having a birthday feast.  A million dollars came to him on that night.  To-night he was poorer by far than on the other occasion, but he expected a little gift on the new anniversary.

Around the board, besides the nine “Little Sons,” sat six guests, among them the DeMilles, Peggy Gray and Mary Valentine.  “Nopper” Harrison was the only absent “Little Son” and his health was proposed by Brewster almost before the echoes of the toast to the bride and groom died away.

Interruption came earlier on this occasion than it did that night a year ago.  Ellis did not deliver his message to Brewster until three o’clock in the morning, but the A.D.T. boy who rang the bell at Pettingill’s a year later handed him a telegram before twelve o’clock.

“Congratulations are coming in, old man,” said DeMille, as Monty looked fearfully at the little envelope the boy had given him.

“Many happy returns of the day,” suggested Bragdon.  “By Jove, it’s sensible of you to get married on your birthday, Monty.  It saves time and expense to your friends.”

“Read it aloud,” said “Subway” Smith.

“Two to one it’s from Nopper Harrison,” cried Pettingill.

Brewster’s fingers trembled, he knew not why, as he opened the envelope.  There was the most desolate feeling in his heart, the most ghastly premonition that ill-news had come in this last hour.  He drew forth the telegram and slowly, painfully unfolded it.  No one could have told by his expression that he felt almost that he was reading his death warrant.  It was from Grant & Ripley and evidently had been following him about town for two or three hours.  The lawyers had filed it at 8:30 o’clock.

He read it at a glance, his eyes burning, his heart freezing.  To the end of his days these words lived sharp and distinct in his brain.

“Come to the office immediately.  Will wait all night for you if necessary.  Jones has disappeared and there is absolutely no trace of him.”

“Grant & Ripley.”

Brewster sat as one paralyzed, absolutely no sign of emotion in his face.  The others began to clamor for the contents of the telegram, but his tongue was stiff and motionless, his ears deaf.  Every drop of blood in his body was stilled by the shock, every sense given him by the Creator was centered upon eleven words in the handwriting of a careless telegraph operator—­“Jones has disappeared and there is absolutely no trace of him.”