As he strolled back to the smoking-room, he saw the maitre d'hotel slyly deliver a twisted bit of paper to the all too unconcerned looking young Adonis, and the gleam of a napoleon shone out in the grave faced Figaro's hand.

"Now for our cafe noir, a good pousse cafe--and--a dash at the painted beauties.

I can't play very long," was Anstruther's salutation, as he complacently twisted his mustache en hussar.

Major Hawke bowed in a silent delight.
And so it fell out that both wolf and panther--hungry vulpine prowler and sleek feminine soft-footed enemy--gathered closely, around the young British Lion, whose easy self-complacency led him into the snare, hoodwinked by the fair unknown Delilah.
Alan Hawke strode to the windows of Anstruther's rooms and standing there, watched the drifting moonbeams mantling on the spectral blue lake, while his chance-met friend rang for a waiter.

There was the murmur of confidential orders, and then Anson Anstruther with a bright smile dropped easily into the role of host.