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When he had finished the only remark of the stranger was:

“Have another.”

“Not on your life,” cried Jones. “I ought to be making tracks for the consul or somewhere to get my passage back to the States—well—I don’t know. No—no more cocktails. I’ll have a sherry, same as you.”

The sherry having been despatched, the stranger rose, refusing a return drink just at that moment.

“Come into the lounge with me,” said he, “I want to tell you something I can’t tell you here.”

They passed up the stairs, the stranger leading the way, Jones following, slightly confused in his mind but full of warmth at his heart, and with a buoyancy of spirit beyond experience. Stringer was forgotten, the British Government was forgotten, contracts, hotel bills, steerage journeys to the States, all these were forgotten. The warmth, the sumptuous rooms, and the golden lamps of the Savoy were sufficient for the moment, and as he sank into an easy chair and lit a cigarette, even his interest in the stranger and what he had to say was for a moment dimmed and diminished by the fumes that filled his brain, and the ease that lapped his senses.