At his office he heard that Sellers was in fact ill with the gout,
and would probably not be able to leave the house for some weeks.

"I'm sorry it should have happened so, Mr. Waythorn," the senior
clerk said with affable significance. "Mr. Sellers was very much
upset at the idea of giving you such a lot of extra work just now."

"Oh, that's no matter," said Waythorn hastily. He secretly welcomed
the pressure of additional business, and was glad to think that,
when the day's work was over, he would have to call at his partner's
on the way home.

He was late for luncheon, and turned in at the nearest restaurant
instead of going to his club. The place was full, and the waiter
hurried him to the back of the room to capture the only vacant
table. In the cloud of cigar-smoke Waythorn did not at once
distinguish his neighbors; but presently, looking about him, he saw
Varick seated a few feet off. This time, luckily, they were too far
apart for conversation, and Varick, who faced another way, had
probably not even seen him; but there was an irony in their renewed
nearness.

Varick was said to be fond of good living, and as Waythorn sat
despatching his hurried luncheon he looked across half enviously at
the other's leisurely degustation of his meal. When Waythorn first
saw him he had been helping himself with critical deliberation to a
bit of Camembert at the ideal point of liquefaction, and now, the
cheese removed, he was just pouring his _cafe double_ from its
little two-storied earthen pot. He poured slowly, his ruddy profile