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It was past nine o’clock in the morning when he next awoke. He felt decidedly better. Both the feverishness and the fatigue had left him. He went to the club and breakfasted there. It was almost empty of members, as small clubs are apt to be at that hour of the morning. But in the hall he met his old friend Langworth and bowed to him. Langworth, who was rather near-sighted, gave a sudden start and a stare. “How odd,” thought Dalrymple, as he passed on into the reading-room, “I hope there’s nothing unexpected about my personal appearance.” Just at the doorway of the room he met another old friend, Summerson, a man extremely strict about all matters of propriety. Summerson saw him and then plainly made believe that he had not seen. As they moved by one another Dalrymple said lightly, “Good-morning, old chap. How’s your gout?”

Summerson, who was very tall and excessively dignified, gave a comic squirm. Then his eyelids fluttered and with the tips of his lips he murmured, “Better,” as he glided along.

“Pooh,” said Dalrymple to himself. “Getting touchy, I suppose, in his old age. How longevity disagrees with some of us mortals.”

He nearly always took a bottle of seltzer before breakfast, and this morning old Andrew (a servant who had been in the club many years) poured it out for him.

“I hope you’re all right again this mornin’, sorr,” said Andrew with his Celtic accent and in an affable half whisper.

“All right, Andrew,” was the reply. “Why, you must be thinking of some one else. I haven’t been ill. My health has been excellent for a long time past.”

“Yes, sorr,” said Andrew, lowering his eyes and respectfully retiring.

That last “Yes, sorr,” had a dubious note about its delivery that almost made Dalrymple call the faithful old fellow back and further question him. “All right again?” As if he had ever been all wrong! Oh, well, poor Andrew was ageing; others had remarked that fact months ago.

A different servant came to announce breakfast. There were only about five men in the dining-room as Dalrymple entered it. All of them gazed at him in an unusual way, or had late events led him to think that they did so? At the table nearest him sat Everdell, one of the jolliest men in the club, a person whose face was nearly always wreathed in smiles.

“Good-morning!” said Dalrymple, as he caught Everdell’s eye!

“Good-morning!” The tones were replete with mild consternation, and the look that went with them was smileless to the degree of actual gloom. Then Everdell, who had just finished his breakfast, rose and drew near to Dalrymple.

“‘Pon my word,” he said, “I’m delighted to see you all right again so soon.”

“All right again so soon?” was the reply. “What in mercy’s name do you mean?”

“Oh, my dear old fellow,” began Everdell, fumbling with his watch-chain, “it was pretty bad, you know, yesterday.”

“Pretty–bad–yesterday?”

“I saw you in the morning, and for an hour or so in the afternoon. Perhaps no one would have noticed it if you hadn’t stayed here all day, and poured those confidences into people’s ears about De Pommereul. You didn’t appear to have drank a drop in the club; there’s the funny part of it. You went out several times, though, and came back again. All that you had to drink (except some wine here at dinner, you remember) you must have got outside. I wasn’t here at ten o’clock when De Pommereul came in. I’m glad I wasn’t. You must have been dreadful. If Summerson and Joyce hadn’t rushed in between you and the Count, heaven knows what would have happened. As it is—-“

At this point Dalrymple broke in with cold harshness: “Look here, Everdell, I always disliked practical jokes, and I’ve known for a number of years that you’re given to them. You’ve never attempted to make me your butt before, however, and you’ll have the kindness to discontinue any such proceeding now.”