Reginald Dane drew his wife into a corner of the higgledy-piggledy drawing-room. “I say,” he whispered, with a cautious eye on the hall. “I say, darling, how much do you think I ought to give these men?” “Haven’t the least idea, darling,” Molly Dane whispered back. “Ten shillings, would you think?” “Between the three of them?” Reginald whispered doubtfully. “Better spring a quid, hadn’t I? They get pretty big tips, these chaps.” “That ought to be plenty.” Young Mr. Dane nodded in a conspirator-like way and, emerging from the corner, walked with an air of extreme carelessness towards a large man with a walrus moustache, who was hovering in an intent manner just inside the open front door. The large man affected to start in astonishment at perceiving Reginald approaching him. “Think you’ll find everything quite satisfactory now, sir,”
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