fferent--they are but
cafes--and why?"

He looked at us in the deepest distress.

"Because," I suggested, "you are by nature too sociable. Frenchman
cannot meet without being polite to each other, so the independence of
a club is lost. Englishmen can share a cabin, and still be distant."

"The furniture is the same," said Giraud, looking round with a
reflective eye, "but there is a different feeling in the air. It is
different from the Paris clubs. Do you know Paris, Monsieur Devar?"
Devar paused.

"Of course, I have been there," he replied, looking at the carpet.
"What Englishman has not?"

[Illustration: "MR. DEVAR," REPEATED TURNER, "LET ME DRAW YOUR
ATTENTION TO THE DOOR!"]

And he was still saying pleasant things of the capital, when the
button-boy brought me John Turner's card. I told him to bring the
gentleman upstairs, and remember still the odd feeling in the throat
with which I heard Turner's step.

The door was thrown open. The boy announced Mr. John Turner, and for a
brief moment Devar's eye meeting mine told me that I had another enemy
in the world. The man's face was mottled, and he sat quite still. I
rose and shook hands with John Turner, who had not yet recovered his
breath. Alphonse--ever polite and affable--did the same. Then I turned
and said:

"Let me introduce to you Mr. Devar--Mr. John Turner."

Turner's face, at no time expressive, did not change.

"Ah!" he said, slowly--"Mr. Devar of Paris."

There was a short silence, during which the two men looked at each
other, and Alphonse shuffled from one foot to the other in an intense
desire to keep things pleasant and friendly in circumstances dimly
adverse.

"Mr. Devar," repeated Turner, "let me draw your attention to the
door!"

There was nothing dramatic about my old friend. He never forgot his
stoutness, and always carried it with dignity. He merely jerked his
thumb towards the door by which he had entered.

Devar must have known Turner better than I did. Perhaps he knew the
sterner side of a character of which I had only experienced the
kindness and friendship, for he stood with a white face, and never
looked at Giraud or myself. Then he shrugged his shoulders and walked
slowly towards the door, his face wearing the sickly smile of the
vanquished.

"Is that what you invited me for?" asked my old friend, when the door
had closed behind Devar.

"Partly."

"But I suppose we are to have some luncheon?"

"Yes; there is some lu