better sort had fallen off considerably, it was still a jolly enough
sort of place of its character to be in. A number of "men about town,"
as they liked to be called, were in, and Colonel Ashley was sipping his
julep when there entered Mr. Kettridge, the relative of Mrs. Darcy,
whose jewelry shop he was managing pending a settlement of her estate.

"Good evening, Colonel," he called genially. "Will you join me in a
Welsh rabbit?"

"Thank you, no. I'm afraid my digestion isn't quite up to that, as
I've had to cut out my fishing of late. But what do you say to a
julep?"

"Delighted, I'm sure," and they sat down at one of the half-enclosed
tables in the grill and ordered food and drink. They had become
friends since the colonel's first visit to the store, and the
friendship had grown as they found they had congenial tastes.

The evening passed pleasantly for them. They talked of much, including
the murder, and the colonel was more than pleased to find that the
jeweler had no very strong suspicion against young Darcy.

"I've known him from a boy," said Mr. Kettridge, "and, though he has
his faults, a crime such as this would be almost impossible to him, no
matter what motive, such as the dispute over money or his sweetheart.
He may be guilty, but I doubt it."

"My idea, exactly," returned the colonel. "Now as to certain matters
in the store on the morning of the murder. The stopped clocks, for
instance. Have you any theory--"

Came, at that instant, fairly bursting into the quiet grill room, some
"jolly good fellows," to take them at their own valuation. There were
three of them, the center figure being that of Harry King, and he was
very much intoxicated.

"Hello, Harry! Where have you been?" some one called.

King regarded his questioner gravely, as though deeply pondering over
the matter. It was often characteristic of him that, though he became
very much intoxicated, yet, at times, under such conditions, Harry
King's language approached the cultured, rather than degenerated into
the common talk of the ordinary drunk. That is not always, but
sometimes. It happened to be so now.

"I beg your pardon?" he said, in the cultured tones he knew so well how
to use, yet of which he made so little use of late.

"I said, where have you been?" remarked the other. "We've missed you."

"I have been spending a week end in the country," King remarked, with
biting sarcasm. "Found I was getting a bit stale in my golf, don't you
know--" there was a momentary pause while he regained the use of his
treacherous tongue, then he went on--"I caught myself foozling a few
putts, and I concluded I needed to work back up to form."

There was a laugh at this, for scarcely one in the gilded grill but
knew where King had been, and whither he was going. But the laugh was
instantly hushed at the look that flashed from his eyes toward those
who had indulged in the mirth.

King had a nasty temper that grew worse with his indulgence in drink,
and it was clear that he had been indulging and intended to continue.

"I said I was--_golfing_," he went on, exceedingly distinctly, though
with an effort. "And now, Cat," and he nodded patronizingly to the
white-aproned and respectful bartender, "will you be kind enough to see
what my friends will be pleased to order that they may pour out a
libation to--let us say Polonius!"

"Why Polonius?" some one asked.

"Because, dear friend," replied King softly, "he somewhat resembles a
certain person here, who talks too much, but who is not so wise as he
thinks. And now--" he raised his glass--"to all the gods that on
Olympus dwell!"

And they drank with him.

Nodding and smiling at his friends, who thronged about him, standing
under the gay lights which reflected from costly oil paintings, Harry
King plunged his hand into his pocket to pay the bill, a check for
which the bartender had thrust toward him.

"Gad, but he's got a wad!" somebody whispered, as King pulled forth a
great roll of bills, together with a number of gold and silver coins.

There was a rattle of coins on the mahogany bar as King sought to
disentangle a single bill from the wadded-up currency in his pocket.

Some coins fell to the floor and rolled in the direction of the table
whereat sat the colonel and Mr. Kettridge. The latter, with a pitying
smile on his face, leaned over to pick them up. As he did so, and
brought a piece of money up into the light, a curious look came over
his face. He stared at the coin.

"What is it?" asked Colonel Ashley, noting the unusual look.

"It's--it's an odd coin--an old Roman one--that Mrs. Darcy had in her
private collection, kept in the jewelry store safe," was the whispered


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