be--rarely--to one woman. There was another reason at work in Harry
Luttrell, but Sir Charles Hardiman was never to know it. With a shrug of
his shoulders he took a pencil from his pocket, filled up one of the
forms and handed it to Luttrell.

"That's what I should reply."

He had written:

"_I am travelling to London to-morrow to apply for
transfer._--LUTTRELL."

Luttrell read the telegram with surprise. It was not the answer which he
had expected from the victim of the flesh-pots in front of him.

"You advise that?" he exclaimed.

"Yes. My dear Luttrell, as you know, you are a guest very welcome to me.
But you don't belong. We--Maud Carstairs, Tony Marsh and the rest of
us--even Mario Escobar--we are the Come-to-nothings. We are the people
of the stage door, we grow fat in restaurants. From three to seven, you
may find us in the card-rooms of our clubs--we are jolly fine
fellows--and no good. You don't belong, and should get out while you
can."

Luttrell moved uncomfortably in his chair.

"That's all very well. But there's another side to the question," he
said, and from the deck above a woman's voice called clearly down the
stairway.