to the bank, where he
conferred briefly, in an undertone, with Eugene Madrillon; after which
Eugene sent a note containing three words to Tappingham Marsh. Marsh
tore up the note, and sauntered over to the club, where he found General
Trumble and Jefferson Bareaud amicably discussing a pitcher of cherry
bounce.

"He has come," said Tappingham, pleased to find the pair the only
occupants of the place. "He saw Madrillon, and there's a session
to-night."

"Praise the Lord!" exclaimed the stout General, rising to his feet.
"I'll see old Chenoweth at once. My fingers have the itch."

"And mine, too," said Bareaud. "I'd begun to think we'd never have a go
with him again."

"You must see that Crailey comes. We want a full table. Drag him, if you
can't get him any other way."

"He won't need urging," said Jefferson.

"But he cut us last time."

"He won't cut tonight. What hour?"

"Nine," answered Tappingham. "It's to be a full sitting, remember."

"Don't fear for us," laughed Trumble.

"Nor for Crailey," Jefferson added. "After so long a vacation you
couldn't keep him away if you chained him to the court-house pillars;
he'd tear 'em in two!"

"Here's to our better fortunes, then!" said the old soldier, filling a
glass for Tappingham; and, "Here's to our better fortunes!" echoed the
young men, pouring off the gentle liquor heartily. Having thus made
libation to their particular god, the trio separated. But Jefferson did
not encounter the alacrity of acceptance he expected from Crailey, when
he found him, half an hour later, at the hotel bar. Indeed, at first,
Mr. Gray not only refused outright to go, but seriously urged the same
course upon Jefferson; moreover, his remonstrance was offered in such
evident good faith that Bareaud, in the act of swallowing one of his
large doses of quinine, paused with only half the powder down his
throat, gazing, nonplussed, at his prospective brother-in-law.

"My immortal soul!" he gasped. "Is this Crailey Gray? What's the
trouble?"

"Nothing," replied Crailey, quietly. "Only don't go, you've lost
enough."

"Well, you're a beautiful one!" Jefferson exclaimed, with an incredulous
laugh. "You're a master hand; you, to talk about losing enough!"

"I know, I know," Crailey began, shaking his head, "but--"

"You've promised Fanchon never to go again, and you're afraid Miss Betty
will see or hear us, and tell her you were there."

"I don't know Miss Carewe."

"Then you needn't