It happened that the two men, waiting in the vestibule of the restaurant for Francis' car to crawl up to the entrance through the fog which had unexpectedly rolled up, heard the slight altercation which was afterwards referred to as preceding the tragedy.

The two young people concerned were standing only a few feet away, the girl pretty, a little peevish, an ordinary type; her companion, whose boyish features were marred with dissipation, a very passable example of the young man about town going a little beyond his tether.
"It's no good standing here, Victor!" the girl exclaimed, frowning.

"The commissionaire's been gone ages already, and there are two others before us for taxis." "We can't walk," her escort replied gloomily.

"It's a foul night.
Nothing to do but wait, what?
Let's go back and have another drink." The girl stamped her satin-shod foot impatiently.
"Don't be silly," she expostulated.

"You know I promised Clara we'd be there early." "All very well," the young man grumbled, "but what can we do?
We shall have to wait our turn." "Why can't you slip out and look for a taxi yourself ?" she suggested.
"Do, Victor," she added, squeezing his arm.