was bald at
the top, but cleanly and beautifully bald, like a head of the finest
marble; on either side and behind, his hair was both white and curly;
his eye was bright, his features remarkably handsome, his mustache a
slender ornament of silver, and his figure tall and slender. At
sixty-three he was probably handsomer than he had ever been before in
his life; and that was saying a great deal. He lived in very pleasant
bachelor chambers in St. James' under the charge of a competent valet.

"Let me see that card again," he said, as he gave his tie those little
finishing touches that converted it from an elegant accessory into a
work of art.

The valet went to his sitting-room and returned with a calling card on
a tray. Colonel Munro studied it a trifle lugubriously.

"James Heriot Walkingshaw," he read, with this addendum in pencil,
"Shall call for you 7:30. Count on your company at dinner."

The Colonel buttoned his white waistcoat.

"Didn't you tell Mr. Walkingshaw that I would probably be engaged?" he
asked.

"Well, sir," said the valet smoothly, "the gentleman seemed such an old
friend of yours, I thought perhaps you wouldn't like to miss him."

"One's oldest friends are sometimes d----d nuisances, Forman."

The Colonel saw the pleasant evening he had contemplated spending in the
society of two or three of the gayest old bloods in London darkening
into a _tete-a-tete_ with Mr. Walkingshaw at his portentously
respectable club, and regretted he had allowed Forman to lay out a clean
white waistcoat; for he was, by force of circumstances, economical as
well as gallant.

"I tell you what," said he, "I don't mean to wait a minute after 7:30.
If he turns up late, you can make my apologies, and say I'll be happy to
lunch with him to-morrow."

He put on his coat, added an overcoat and white scarf, cocked his opera
hat on his shapely old head, and sat confronting his sitting-room clock.
At 7:29 he rose briskly, and then with a sigh sank back into his chair.
He heard a footstep on the stair.

"Mr. Walkingshaw," announced the valet.

The Colonel advanced with that courteous smile for which he was
renowned.

"My dear Charlie!" cried his visitor.

"Well, Heriot," smiled the Colonel, looking a little surprised at the
remarkable joviality of this greeting.

He surveyed his old friend up and down, and seemed still more surprised.

"What a buck you are!" he exclaimed.

In truth, Mr. Walkingshaw, arrayed in a ne