one to that bank examiner!"

He chuckled wabblingly, like a jolly jellyfish.

"Talk about a red flag to a bull," he exploded, "why, they--"

Billings broke off suddenly. Then he climbed heavily to his feet, and
without warning, heaved himself across the room and seized the button I
had just uncovered. Dashed if he didn't almost upset me.

"Here, I say!" I protested. "Don't lose that cap." I picked it up from
where he had jerked it to the floor. "It's the cover to hide that glass,
you know."

"Wh-a-a-t!"

Billings swung round, staring at me with the most curious expression.

"See here, Dicky," he exclaimed rather excitedly, but in a low tone, as
he cut a side glance at Jenkins siphoning the fizz over at the
cellarette. "What in thunder have you been doing now?"

By Jove, I turned cold for a minute, I was that startled. I thought he
was going to use the pajamas as an introduction for reference to last
night. But in a minute I saw that he did not mean that.

"Where on earth did _you_ get anything like this?" And he held up the
button and the garment.

"Oh, I say now!" I remonstrated, alarm changing to a mild dudgeon.
Billings' devilish rude manners are so offensive at times. "What do you
mean? It's a present from a friend in China."

"Present!" Billings' eyes bulged queerly. He stooped toward me,
whispering: "Did he know what this button was?"

"Why, of course he didn't," I answered indignantly. "Never dreamed of
it, of course. I tell you, it was all nicely covered, was
what-you-call-it--upholstered, you know--with devilish nice silk. I cut
it off accidentally, trying to force the thing through that loop. That
left the marble exposed."

Billings took the glass mechanically from the tray tendered by Jenkins
and sipped it slowly, eying me curiously over the top. Then he set it
back, very deliberately, wiped his mouth with the bit of napery, and
without taking his glance from me, waited until Jenkins had left the
room. Whereupon, after another searching look at the button, he dropped
it with the garment upon the table, and with hands jammed deep in his
pockets, faced me with a long-drawn whistle.

"Well, I'll be hanged!" he exclaimed. Just a coarse, vulgar outburst,
you know--no sense to it; no point at all, you know--that's Billings.

He caught up the coat again. "And these others--four of them--are they
just the same?" he demanded sharply.

"Dash it, how should I know? I suppose so," I answered indifferen