They were expensively dressed, and they were obviously ladies and gentlemen who would not lie awake on hard beds that night, wondering how they might scrounge a good breakfast. He watched them as they, too, went past into the restaurant, and sighed.

    'Now, if I were only—' he began, and suddenly an idea occurred to him.

    He waited for another ten minutes then, rising slowly, he handed his hat to the cloakroom attendant and passed into the restaurant. He saw the four stout people at a table at the far end of the long room; next to them was a small unoccupied table. The elder of the two men looked up at the sight of a very respectable figure.

    'Yes, sir?' he asked.

    Anthony bent down and lowered his voice, but it was not so low that all four members of the party could not hear.

    'Lord Rothside says he is awfully sorry he can't come, but will you lunch with him instead, at Berkeley Square?'

    'Eh?' said the staggered recipient of this invitation.

    'You are Mr Steiner, aren't you?' said Anthony, in a tone of apprehension, as though it were beginning to dawn upon him that he had made a mistake.

    'No, sir,' said the fat and smiling Hebrew, 'my name is Goldheim. I am afraid you've made a mistake.'

    Anthony uttered a 'tut' of impatience.

    'I'm awfully sorry, but the fact is I have never met Mr Steiner, and I knew he was lunching here, and—' He broke off in confusion.

    'No offence, I'm sure,' said the nattered gentleman. 'I don't know Mr Steiner myself, or I would point him out.' He chuckled round at his companions. 'I've only been mistaken for a friend of Lord Rothside's, that's all,' he said, not without enjoyment.

    'I'll wait for him,' smiled Anthony, apologetically. 'I can't tell you how sorry I am to have interrupted you.'

    He sat down at the next table; and when the waiter bustled up:

    'I am not ordering anything, yet,' he said. 'I am expecting a gentleman.'

    At the next table the lunch proceeded and Anthony writhed in agony. Presently one of the party looked round.

    'Mr Steiner hasn't come yet, has he?' he asked unnecessarily.

    Anthony shook his head.

    'I'll wait,' he said, 'though it is rather a nuisance. I am losing my lunch.' There was another interregnum of clattering knives and forks, and then: 'Won't you join us, Mr—?'

    'Newton is my name,' said Anthony, 'and really, I don't think it is fair to impose myself upon you.'

    But before he had finished the sentence, he was sitting with them, and in five minutes had given his opinion on an excellent Niersteiner.

    'Are you Lord Rothside's secretary?'

    'Not exactly his secretary,' said Anthony, with a little smile.

    He conveyed the impression that the question had been in the nature of a faux pas, and that the position he occupied was something infinitely superior to secretaryship. So might Napoleon have looked if, in the days of the directorate, he had been asked if he was a member of the Government.

    The two women were nice-looking motherly ladies, with that sense of humour which Anthony was best able to titillate. He set the table in chuckles as he struggled manfully to overtake them. By the time the coffee stage was reached he was level: he smoked one of Mr Goldheim's cigars with the air of a connoisseur.

    'It is strange meeting you like this,' said Anthony reminiscently. 'I shall never forget the first time I dined with the Duke of Minford. I dropped in most unexpectedly, had never met him before, never been introduced, didn't know him from Adam.'

    Here, Anthony spoke nothing but the truth, for he had 'dropped in' when His Grace was lying at the bottom of a shell-hole in France, and they had dined upon a biscuit and a bar of chocolate.

    'You're in the City, I suppose Mr Newton?'

    'I'm everywhere,' said Anthony, vaguely. 'I have a place in the City, of course, but I have only recently returned from abroad.'

    Mr Goldheim smiled at him slyly.

    'Made a lot of money, eh?'

    'Yes, I've made a lot of money.'

    'South Africa?'

    It was Anthony's turn to smile, but Anthony smiled cryptically. It neither admitted nor denied South Africa. It was a smile which stood as well for the Argentine, Chicago or South America.

    'The truth is, I don't know London very well,' he admitted.

    All the time he was wondering who were the three quiet, middle-aged men at the next table, who spoke a little, but who gave him the impression that they were listening intently. The first time he noticed them, he realised that they had heard almost every word he had spoken, from his first mention of the great master of finance; and he felt a momentary discomfort. And yet they did not appear to be listening. The man with the big red face, who was nearest to him, seemed utterly absorbed in the meal he was eating. They might have been prosperous farmers in London for the day, or successful north country mill owners.

    Soon after, Mr Goldheim called for the bill, tipped the waiter extravagantly (Anthony's palm itched to take back one of the half-crowns), and the party strolled back into the vestibule.

    Anthony was the first to hand his check to the cloakroom attendant; and the official accepted Mr Goldheim's tip as for the whole of the party.

    'Can we drop you anywhere?' asked that gentleman.

    'If you could put me down at the Ritz-Carlton,' Anthony hesitated, 'that is, if it is not out of your way.'

    It was not out of their way, for the theatre where they were spending the afternoon was next door to the hotel.

    He stood for a moment in the entrance of the hotel waving farewell to his benefactors and then strolled into the reception hall.

    'I want a bedroom and a sitting-room,' said Anthony.

    He had not the slightest intention of going to the Ritz or to any other hotel; but it seemed such an hotel as a brigand, at sudden war with society, would choose for his headquarters.

    'I will bring my baggage in later,' he said, 'but remember, I must have a room overlooking The Mall.'

    'What name, sir?'

    Anthony signed the book with a flourish, and before the reception clerk could hint gently that rooms could not be reserved for baggageless visitors without a deposit, Anthony was enquiring the exact location of the nearest branch of the Hardware Trust Bank, of New York.

    'If you turn to the right when you go out of the entrance, sir, and then

    turn to the right again, you will find the Trust Company on the left,'

    said the clerk. 'It is customary in engaging rooms—' and then came a

    welcome interruption.

    A hand fell on Anthony's shoulder, and he turned to look into the smiling eyes of a big jovial man, whose tanned face spoke of an open air life.

    'Isn't this Mr Newton?' he asked, wonder and hope in his voice.

    Anthony took a step back, and then thrust out his hand.

    'By Jove, I don't know your name, but I remember you so well.'

    'John Frenchan, of Frenchan and Carter. You remember my store in Cape Town?'

    'Remember!' said Anthony ecstatically, and shook the man's hand. 'As if I could forget it! I can't quite recall where I met you, but I know your name as well as my own.'

    He turned from the desk; the clerk's face bore a look of resignation. Automatically he placed a room number against Mr Newton's name; in his private register he wrote 'No baggage. OK? The question mark against 'OK' was more than justified.

    Anthony's new friend led the way to the lounge, where the coffee and cigar parties were sitting. A waiter came forward expectantly, and spun a chair.

    'You've had your lunch? Join me in a cup of coffee,' said Mr Frenchan. 'Did you come over by boat?'

    'Yes, on the Balmoral Castle,' said Anthony.

    In his capacity of secretary to Hoad and Evans, a firm which conducted an extensive shipping business, he was acquainted not only with the ships of the Castle line, but knew by repute the name of Frenchans.