The close-cropped, bullet-shaped, British head was agitated in vigorousnegation, and "Card for Mister Kirkwood!" was mumbled in dispassionateaccents appropriate to a recitation by rote.

"Very well. But before you show him up, ask this Mr. Calendar if he isquite sure he wants to look at Philip Kirkwood."

"Yessir."

The kid marched out, punctiliously closing the door. Kirkwood tampeddown the tobacco in his pipe and puffed energetically, dismissing theinterruption to his reverie as a matter of no consequence--an obviousmistake to be rectified by two words with this Mr. Calendar who he did notknow. At the knock he had almost hoped it might be Brentwick, returningwith a changed mind about the bid to dinner.

He regretted Brentwick sincerely. Theirs was a curious sort offriendship--extraordinarily close in view of the meagerness of either'sinformation about the other, to say nothing of the disparity between theirages. Concerning the elder man Kirkwood knew little more than that they hadmet on shipboard, "coming over"; that Brentwick had spent some decades inAmerica; that he was an Englishman by birth, a cosmopolitan by habit, byprofession a gentleman (employing that term in its most uncompromisinglyBritish significance), and by inclination a collector of "articles ofvirtue and bigotry," in pursuit of which he made frequent excursions to theContinent from his residence in a quaint quiet street of 0ld Brompton. Ithad been during his not infrequent, but ordinarily abbreviated, sojourns inParis that their steamer acquaintance had ripened into an affection almostfilial on the one hand, almost paternal on the other....

There came a rapping at the entrance.

Kirkwood removed the pipe from between his teeth long enough to say "Comein!" pleasantly.

The knob was turned, the door opened. Kirkwood, swinging on one heel,beheld hesitant upon the threshold a rather rotund figure of medium height,clad in an expressionless gray lounge suit, with a brown "bowler" hat heldtentatively in one hand, an umbrella weeping in the other. A voice, whichwas unctuous and insinuative, emanated from the figure.

"Mr. Kirkwood?"

Kirkwood nodded, with some effort recalling the name, so detached had beenhis thoughts since the disappearance of the page.

"Yes, Mr. Calendar--?"

"Are you--ah--busy, Mr. Kirkwood?"

"Are you, Mr. Calendar?" Kirkwood's smile robbed the retort of any flavorof incivility.