e of his
characteristic actions--he cared little how he appeared or whom his
appearance affected.

"You? Come in!" he said.

A tall, well-featured man, well-dressed, well-groomed, walked in
through the open door. With a certain amount of care--customary
enough in him to hide the obvious--he laid his silk hat, brim upwards,
upon the table, pulled off his gloves, threw them carelessly into
it, and turned round.

"You're going out?" he said.

"Yes."

"Can't come and have dinner with me?"

"No, couldn't."

"Taking the little lady out, I suppose?"

"No, she's upstairs."

The man's eyes passed across Traill's face as they wandered to the
portrait of James Brownrigg over the mantelpiece.

"Well, I'm at a loose end," he said. He took a gold cigarette-case
from his pocket and extracted a cigarette. Traill continued his
gymnastics with the shirt, forcing studs through obdurate holes,
fastening links and muttering under his breath.

"I thought we might have dined together and taken the little lady
to a music hall, like we did before. How long ago was that?"

Traill tramped into the other room and came out, struggling with a
collar.

"Oh, last September, wasn't it?"

"Something like that, getting on for a year. How is she?"

"Oh, first rate. Will you have a drink?"

"No, thanks, old man. Where are you going to?"

"I'm dining with my sister. Going to some theatre, I believe."

"Ah, I saw your sister the other day, about a couple of weeks ago."
He seated himself, hitching his trousers above the uppers of his
boots. "Prince's, I think it was. Yes, she was skating with that Miss
Standish-Roe."

"Yes, she's coming with my sister and me this evening."

"Is she?" Again his eye lifted to Traill's face. "Damned pretty
girl."

Traill did not reply. Had he made some casual answer in the
affirmative, the man's eyes might not have followed him as he walked
back into his bedroom; the humorous twist of the man's lips might
not have been visible. There would have been no thought to create
it.

"What theatre are you going to?" he asked unconcernedly.

Traill mentioned the name, and began the singing of a hymn tune with
impossible crescendos and various deviations from the melody.

"'Can a woman's tender care
Cease toward the child she bare?
Yes, she may forgetful be ...'"

"I say!" he called out with unceremonious interruption to himself.

"What?"

"You say you've got a loose end?"

"Yes, there's