accentuated by short jerks of laughter. He roused himself in a while and
carried Drake off to his club, where he found Hugh Fielding pulling his
moustache over the _Meteor_. He introduced Drake, and left them together.

'I was reading a list of your sins,' said Fielding, and he waved the
newspaper.

Drake laughed in reply.

'The vivisectionists,' said Fielding, 'may cite you as proof of the
painlessness of their work.'

'It is my character that suffers the knife. I fancy the editor would
prefer to call the operation a _post-mortem_.'

Fielding warmed to his new acquaintance. Whisky and potass helped them to
discover common friends, about whom Fielding supplied information with a
flavour of acid in his talk which commended him to Drake; it bit without
malice. Mallinson's name was mentioned.

'You have read his autobiography?' asked Fielding.

'No; but I have read his novel.'

'That's what I mean. Most men wait till they have achieved a career
before they write their autobiographies. He anticipates his. It's rather
characteristic of the man, I think.'

They drove from the club together in a hansom. Opposite to his rooms in
St. James's Street Fielding got out.

'Good-night,' he said, and took a step towards the door.

A lukewarm curiosity which had been stirring in Drake during the latter
part of the evening prompted him to a question now that he saw the
opportunity to satisfy it disappearing.

'You know the Le Mesuriers?' he asked.

Fielding laughed. 'Already?' he said.

'I don't understand.'

'Then you are not acquainted with the lady?'

'No; that's what I'm asking. What is Miss Le Mesurier like?'

'She is more delightfully surprising than even I had imagined. Otherwise
she's difficult to describe; a bald enumeration of features would be rank
injustice.'

Drake's curiosity responded to the flick.

'One might fit them together with a little trouble,' he suggested.

'The metaphor of a puzzle is not inapt,' replied Fielding, as he opened
his door. 'Good-night!' and he went in.

Half-way down Pall Mall Drake was smitten by a sudden impulse. The
fog had cleared from the streets; he looked up at the sky. The night
was moonless but starlit, and very clear. He lifted the trap, spoke
to the cabman, and in a few minutes was driving southwards across
Westminster Bridge.

It was the chance recollection of a phrase dropped by Conway during
dinner which sent him in this untimely scurry to Elm-tree Hill. 'As