“Nevertheless,” Philip said, growing calmer as he recognised the man’s condition, “you are a very insufferable fellow.”

There had been a little murmur throughout the room at the end of Sylvanus Power’s last blatant speech, but at Philip’s retort there was a hushed, almost an awed silence.  Mr. Honeybrook rose to his feet.

“Sir,” he said, turning to Power, “to the best of my belief you are not a member of this club.”

“I am a member of any club in America I choose to enter,” the intruder declared.  “As for you writing and acting popinjays, I could break the lot of you if I chose.  I came to see you, Ware.  Come out from your friends and talk to me.”

Philip pushed back his chair, made his way deliberately round the head of the table, brushing aside several arms outstretched to prevent his going.  Sylvanus Power stood in an open space between the tables, swinging his cane, with its ugly top, in the middle of his hand.  He watched Philip’s approach and lowered his head a little, like a bull about to charge.

“If you have anything to say to me,” Philip observed coolly, “I am here, but I warn you that there is one subject which is never discussed within these walls.  If you transgress our unwritten rule, I shall neither listen to what you have to say nor will you be allowed to remain here.”

“And what is that subject?” Sylvanus Power thundered.

“No woman’s name is mentioned here,” Philip told him calmly.

Several of the men had sprung to their feet.  It seemed from Power’s attitude as though murder might be done.  Philip, however, stood his ground almost contemptuously, his frame tense and poised, his fists clenched.  Suddenly the strain passed.  The man whose face for a moment had been almost black with passion, lowered his cane, swayed a little upon his feet, and recovered himself.

“So you know what I’ve come here to talk about, young man?” he demanded.

“One can surmise,” Philip replied.  “If you think it worth while, I will accompany you to my rooms or to yours.”

Philip in those few seconds made a reputation for himself which he never lost.  The little company of men looked at one another in mute acknowledgment of a courage which not one of them failed to appreciate.

“I’ll take you at your word,” Sylvanus Power decided grimly.  “Here, boys,” he went on, moving towards the table where Philip had been seated, “give me a drink—­some rye whisky.  I’m dry.”

Not a soul stirred.  Even Noel Bridges remained motionless.  Heselton, the junior manager of the theatre, met the millionaire’s eye and never flinched.  Mr. Honeybrook knocked the ash from his cigar and accepted the role of spokesman.

“Mr. Power,” he said, “we are a hospitable company here, and we are at all times glad to entertain our friends.  At the same time, the privileges of the club are retained so far as possible for those who conform to a reasonable standard of good manners.”