In the great dining-hall the snowy-covered tables were being taken
rapidly by members about to dine; silent-footed waiters were hurrying to
and fro, carrying out their various duties, while intermittently the
sound of opening champagne bottles mingled with the buzz of conversation
and the ripple of laughter.

The three men, Mortimer Shelton, Lord Standon and Frank Parselle, seated
themselves at a table in a comfortable recess and took stock of the
room, responding to numerous nods and smiles of recognition, while
grumbling at the unpunctuality of their friend.

"Ten past seven!" groaned Shelton, looking at his watch. "I might have
known that Leroy would be late. Shall we wait?"

"Oh, yes!" said Parselle; "Adrien might not like it, you know. It is a
bore, though! The soup will be as thick as mud!"

"By Jove! I'd forgotten," interrupted Standon suddenly. "I met Leroy
yesterday, and he asked me to tell you he might be late, as he was off
to Barminster Castle last night. We were not to wait. He gave me a note,
and--if I haven't left it in my other coat--" He fumbled in his pocket.
"No; here it is." He produced the note with an air of triumph, and
Shelton, with a muttered exclamation of disgust, ordered dinner to be
served before he opened it. As he did so and ran his eye over the
contents, he frowned.