his stuffy room, and when Welland went away he had a play that made his name for ever.  I could tell you of two of the heavy artillery among the London leader-writers who always bring their big stuff to De Foe before they fire it.  Last July, when the war was making its preliminary bow, and Hemphill was thundering those editorials of his that warned the Old Lion he would have to wake up and clean the jungle, Hemphill was simply the errand urchin.  There’s the man who wrote “To Arms, England!” one day after the Austrian note to Serbia.  Hemphill got the credit and the money—­but Laurence De Foe did it.’

Smyth’s stream of narrative, which carried considerably less impedimenta of caricature and persiflage than was usual with him, came to an end with the arrival of two Twilight Tinkles and a generous-sized tumbler, more than half-full of brandy.  After an elaborate search of his coat and trousers pockets to locate a five-pound note, Smyth was forced to allow Selwyn to pay for the refreshment, promising to knock him up before six next morning and repay him.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ said the conscientious artist, ’here’s success to crime!’

Not waiting to honour the misanthropic toast, Dick Durwent had reached greedily for his glass, and poured its contents down his throat.  With a heavy sigh of gratification, he leaned back in his chair, and the pallor of his cheeks showing beneath the weather-beaten surface of tan was flecked with patches of colour.  For an instant only his eyes went yellow, as on the night at the Cafe Rouge; but the horrible glare died out, and was succeeded by the calm, blue tranquillity that had reigned before.

‘By St. George!’ said Smyth admiringly, ’but we have no amateur with us, Selwyn.’

The solitary figure of De Foe, who had been watching them, left his table, and lurching over to them, stood swaying unevenly.

‘Bon soir, gentlemen,’ he said, speaking with the deep sonorousness which comes of long saturation of the vocal cords with undiluted spirits, ’I think one or two of these faces are new to Archibald’s.  Am I right?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Smyth, rising.  ’Permit me, Mr. De Foe, to introduce’——­

The writer stopped him with a slow, majestic movement of the hand.  ‘What care I who they are?’ he said heavily.  ’Names mean nothing—­pretty labels on empty vessels.  By what right do these gentlemen invade the sanctity of Archibald’s?’ He drew a chair near them and sat down sullenly, hanging his arm over the back.  ’Do I see aright?’ he queried thickly, opening his eyes with difficulty, and revealing their lustreless shade.  ’There are three of you?  Humph!  The one I know—­a clumsy dauber in a smudgy world.’

Smyth nodded delightedly to his companions to indicate that the compliment was intended for him.

‘Or your friends,’ went on the heavy resonant voice, ’one has the face of a dreamer.  Come, sir, tell me of these dreams that are keeping you awake of nights.  I am descended from Joseph by the line of Charlemagne, and I have it in my power to interpret them.  Are you a writer?’