It was a cold night in early spring, and the West End streets were
nearly deserted. The great shutters of the shops were being drawn down
with a dull rumble, and every moment the pavements grew more dreary
looking as the glories of the plate-glass windows were hidden.

Tired workers with haggard faces were making their way homeward; to them
the day was at an end. But to the occupants of the whirring taxis and
smart motors, as they sped westward, the round of their day was but
half-way through; for them, the great ones of the earth, the
all-important hour of dinner was at hand.

At the entrance of one of the most luxurious clubs in Pall Mall two men,
in immaculate evening dress, stood carelessly surveying the hurrying
throngs of people.

"Seven," said one, as the hour struck from the nearest church. "I
thought Standon said seven."

"Yes, and like a woman, meant half-past," returned the other, hiding a
yawn.

"Stan's too young to value his dinner properly, but Leroy ought to have
been punctual. Oh, here is Stan!" as a slight, well-dressed man sprang
hastily from a smart motor and came towards them.

"Hello!" said the new-comer, shaking hands, "you two fellows first? I
hope I'm not late, Shelton."

"Of course you're late," growled Shelton, with characteristic pessimism.
"You always are, and Leroy is worse. Come along, we may as well wait
inside as in this beastly draught."