Anything more unlike a doctor it would be hard to imagine. But he was a
clever one, nevertheless.

"Well, my talkative young parrot," he greeted West affectionately, "and
how are you?... And who's party is this, anyhow? Yours or Merriton's?
You seem to be putting yourself rather more to the fore than usual."

"Well, I'll soon be goin' aft," retorted West with a wide grin. "When old
Nigel gets his innings. He's as chockful of news as an egg is of meat."
West was one of the chosen few who had already heard of Nigel's
engagement, and he was rather like a gossipy old woman--but his friends
forgave it in him.

Merriton gave him a shove, and he fell back upon Wynne, emitting a
portentous groan.

"What the devil--?" began that gentleman, in a testy voice.

Tony grinned.

"Nigel was ever thus!" he murmured, with uplifted eyes.

"Shut up!" thundered Stark, clapping a hand over West's mouth, and he
subsided as the doorbell rang again, and Borkins ushered in Fordyce and
Lefroy, two slim-hipped, dapper young gentlemen with the stamp of the
army all over them. The party thus complete, Borkins gravely withdrew,
and some fifteen minutes later the great gong in the hallway clanged
out its summons. They streamed into the dining room, Doctor Bartholomew
upon Tony West's fat little arm; Fordyce and Lefroy, side by side, hands
in pockets and closely cropped heads nodding vigorously; Merriton and
Lester Stark sauntering one slightly behind the other, and exchanging
pleasantries as they went; and just in front of them, Dacre Wynne,
solitary, huge, sinister, and overbearing.

Wynne sat in the seat of honour on Merriton's right. The rest sorted
themselves out as they wished, and made a good deal of noise and fun
about it, too. Down the length of the long, exquisitely decorated table
Merriton looked at his guests and thought it wasn't going to be so dismal
after all.

Champagne ran like water and spirits ran high. They joyfully toasted
Wynne, and later on the news that Merriton imparted to them. In vain
Dacre Wynne's low spirits were apparent. He must get over his grouch,
that was all. Then once again the spirit of evil descended upon the
gathering and it was Stark who precipitated its flight. "By the way,
Nigel," he asked suddenly, "isn't there some ghost story or other
pertaining to your district? Give us a recital of it, old boy. Walnuts
and wine and ghost stories, you know, are just the right sort of thing
after a dinner like thi