My host, for such he evidently was, rose and bowed with great
politeness.

"You must pardon me," he said, "for sitting down; but, as my note
said, I dine at nine. I will have the shell-fish and soup brought
on."

"I should prefer to begin with the filet," I said, decidedly.

A servant brought me a plate; my hand trembled, but I succeeded in
helping myself without spilling the precious sauce; I ate.

"There are three conditions of men who might be expected to accept
the kind of invitation which has brought me the honor of your
company," remarked my host as we lit our cigarettes over the Roman
punch. "To particularize, there is the curious impertinent, the
merely foolish person, and the man in extremis rerum. Now I have no
liking for the dog-faced breed, as Homer would put it, and neither
do I suffer fools gladly. At least, one of the latter is not likely
to bother me again." He smiled grimly, and I thought of Bingham's
face of terror.

"I found my desperate man in you, my dear Mr. Thorp, shall we drink
to our better acquaintance?" I bowed, and we drank.

"The precise nature of your misfortune does not concern me," he
continued, airily. "It is sufficient that we are of the same mind
in our attitude towards the world--'to shake with Destiny for
beers,' is it not?