a sort of—"

"An illusion of gentility," said Nevin.

"Perhaps we'd better not tonight," decided Cartwright. "Mr. West is not used to her. After he's been here awhile—"

He stopped and looked aghast.

"We've forgotten something," he announced.

He rose and strode around the table to the imitation fireplace and took down a bottle that stood on the mantelpiece—a bottle with a black silk bow tied around its neck. Ceremoniously, he set it in the center of the table, beside the bowl of fruit.

"It's a little joke we have," said Nevin.

"Scarcely a joke," contradicted Cartwright.

West looked puzzled. "A bottle of whisky?"

"But a special bottle," Cartwright said. "A very special bottle. Back in the old days we formed a last man's club, jokingly. This bottle was to be the one the last man would drink. It made us feel so adventuresome and brave and we laughed about it while we labored to find hormones. For, you see, none of us thought it would ever come to pass."

"But now," said Nevin, "there are only three of us."

"You are wrong," Cartwright reminded him. "There are four."

Both of them looked at West.

"Of course," decided Nevin. "There are four of us."

Cartwright spread the napkin in his lap. "Perhaps, Louis, we might as well let Mr. West see the painting."

Nevin hesitated. "I'm not quite satisfied, Cartwright...."

Cartwright clucked his tongue. "You're too suspicious, Louis. He had the creature, didn't he? He knew about your painting. There was only one way that he could have learned."

Nevin considered. "I suppose you're right," he said.

"And if Mr. West should, by any chance, turn out to be an impostor," said Cartwright, cheerfully, "we can always 

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