ime of such moment that it
seemed inconsiderate to trouble him with my difficulties. Also I was
beginning to learn a lesson which has since been more fully impressed
on my mind--namely, that there is only one person whose interest in
one's affairs is continuous and sincere--namely, one's self. John
Turner was a kind friend, and one who, I believe, bestowed a great
affection upon a very unworthy object; but at such a time, when France
seemed to be crumbling away in the sight of men, it was surely asking
too much that I should expect him to turn his thoughts to me. I
called, however, at the hotel where he had established himself, and
there learnt from his valet that my friend was in the habit of
quitting his temporary abode early in the day, not to return until
evening.

"Where does he lunch?" I asked.

"Sometimes at one place, sometimes at another--wherever they have a
good _chef_, sir," the man replied.

I bethought me of my own club and its renown. Come peace or war, I
knew that John Turner never missed his meals. I left a note asking him
to take luncheon with me at the club on the following day, to discuss
matters of importance and meet a mutual acquaintance. I invited him
fifteen minutes later than the hour named to Mr. Devar, and in the
evening received his acceptance. As I was walking down St. James
Street the next morning I met Alphonse Giraud.

"Will you lunch with me at the club," I said, "to-day, at one. I want
to give you every facility to carry out your scheme to keep an eye on
me."

Poor Alphonse blushed and hung his head.

"John Turner will be there," I said, with a laugh, "and perhaps we may
hear something that will interest you--at all events, he will talk of
money, since you are so absorbed in it."

So my luncheon party formed itself into a rather queer _partie carree_;
for I knew John Turner's contempt for Alphonse, and hoped that he
might cherish a yet stronger feeling against Devar.

At the hour appointed that gentleman arrived, and was pleased to be
very gracious and patronising. His manner towards me was that of a man
of the world who is kindly disposed towards a country bumpkin. I
received him in the smaller smoking-room, where we were alone, and
were still sitting there when Alphonse came. It was quite evident that
the little Frenchman appreciated the great English club.

"Now, in Paris," he said, "we copy all this. But it is not the same
thing. We have our clubs, but they are quite di