“I have enough in this test-tube,” said Willie airily, “to blow half New York to bits.”

The silence was broken by a crash in the background.  Mr. Crocker had dropped a chafing-dish.

“If I were to drop this little tube like that,” said Willie, using the occurrence as a topical illustration, “we shouldn’t be here.”

“Don’t drop it,” advised Jimmy.  “What is it?”

“Partridgite!”

Mrs. Pett had risen from the table, with blanched face.

“Willie, how can you bring that stuff here?  What are you thinking of?”

Willie smiles a patronising smile.

“There is not the slightest danger, aunt Nesta.  It cannot explode without concussion.  I have been carrying it about with me all the morning.”

He bestowed on the test-tube the look a fond parent might give his favourite child.  Mrs. Pett was not reassured.

“Go and put it in your uncle’s safe at once.  Put it away.”

“I haven’t the combination.”

“Call your uncle up at once at the office and ask him.”

“Very well.  If you wish it, aunt Nesta.  But there is no danger.”

“Don’t take that thing with you,” screamed Mrs. Pett, as he rose.  “You might drop it.  Come back for it.”

“Very well.”

Conversation flagged after Willie’s departure.  The presence of the test-tube seemed to act on the spirits of the company after the fashion of the corpse at the Egyptian banquet.  Howard Bemis, who was sitting next to it, edged away imperceptibly till he nearly crowded Ann off her chair.  Presently Willie returned.  He picked up the test-tube, put it in his pocket with a certain jauntiness, and left the room again.

“Now, if you hear a sudden bang and find yourself disappearing through the roof,” said Jimmy, “that will be it.”

Willie returned and took his place at the table again.  But the spirit had gone out of the gathering.  The voice of Clarence Renshaw was hushed, and Howard Bemis spoke no more of the influence of Edgar Lee Masters on modern literature.  Mrs. Pett left the room, followed by Ann.  The geniuses drifted away one by one.  Jimmy, having lighted a cigarette and finished his coffee, perceived that he was alone with his old friend, Lord Wisbeach, and that his old friend Lord Wisbeach was about to become confidential.

The fair-haired young man opened the proceedings by going to the door and looking out.  This done, he returned to his seat and gazed fixedly at Jimmy.

“What’s your game?” he asked.

Jimmy returned his gaze blandly.

“My game?” he said.  “What do you mean?”

“Can the coy stuff,” urged his lordship brusquely.  “Talk sense and talk it quick.  We may be interrupted at any moment.  What’s your game?  What are you here for?”

Jimmy raised his eyebrows.

“I am a prodigal nephew returned to the fold.”

“Oh, quit your kidding.  Are you one of Potter’s lot?”