It 's gone! It 's gone!" said John Brassington twice.

       "John Brassington drank a little of the brandy, and Mr. Kirby went on—

      "Don't bother about Belgium to-night, my boy. In the first place, take my overcoat. I am cleverer than you in these crushes, I don't even hang it on a peg. I leave it" (and here he reached behind a curtain), "I leave it here," and he pulled it out.

      It was no more than an easy mackintosh without arms. He put it on his unresisting friend, who simply said—

      "What are you going to do, Charles?"

      "I am going to take orders," said Charles Kirby, suddenly pulling out from his pocket a square of fine, black silk, and neatly adjusting it over his shirt front. "I haven't got a parsons dog collar on, but a man can walk the streets in this. After all, some of the clergy still wear the old-fashioned collars and white tie, don't they? "

      John Brassington smiled palely.

      "Oh, it 's in the house!" he said. "It 's sure to be in the house somewhere!"

      "Now, John," said Charles Kirby firmly, "don't make a fool of yourself. Don't ask for that coat. It 's the one way not to get it. Stay where you are, and I 'll bring you news."

      He went out, and in five minutes he came back with news.

      "Fifty people went out before we got up, John. No one knows who they were. The idiot at the door could only remember the Quaker lot and My-lord, and Perkin 's so fussed that he can do nothing but swear, and that 's no use. You 've simply got to come along with me, and we 'll walk home through the rain. Take Belgium at your leisure."

      "It isn't Belgium that 's worrying me!" said poor Mr. Brassington.

      "No, I know," said Charles Kirby soothingly. "I understand."

      The two men went out into the night and the storm. Charles Kirby enjoyed bad weather; it was part of his manifold perversity. He tried to whistle in the teeth of the wind as they went along the main road towards the Crampton Park suburb of the town. Brassington strode at his side.

      "You didn't order a carriage," said Kirby after a little while; "you didn't know it was going to rain. I suppose that Green Overcoat of yours has got luck in the lining?"

      "It has a cheque-book of mine in the pocket," said John Brassington.

      "Yes, but that 's not what you 're bothering about," said Mr. Kirby. "You 're bothering about the luck. For a man who hates cards, John, you 're superstitious."

      For some paces Brassington said nothing, then he said—

      "Long habit affects men."

      "Of course it does," said Mr. Kirby, with the fullest sympathy. "That is why so many people are afraid of death. They 're afraid of the change of habit."

      And after that nothing more was said until they came to the lodge gates of that very large, ugly, convenient and modern house, which John Brassington had built and for no reason at all had called "Lauderdale."

      "Shall I come up to the door with you, John?" said Mr. Kirby.

      "If you don't mind," answered Brassington doubtfully.

      "Not a bit," said Mr. Kirby cheerfully. "If I had grounds as big as yours I shouldn't go through them alone."

      The two men walked up the short way to the main door. When it was opened for them, the first thing Mr. Brassington said to his servant was—

      "Has anyone brought back my overcoat?"

      The servant had seen nothing of it.

      "It 's not here," said Mr. Brassington, turning round to Mr. Kirby. "Come in."

      "No, I won't, John," said Mr. Kirby. "I 'll ring you up in the morning. I 'll do better than come in, I 'll try and find it for you."

      "You 're a good friend, Charles," said John Brassington, with meaning and simplicity. He had got a blow.

      "Meanwhile, John," said Kirby, standing outside and dripping in the rain, "remember it 's doing some other fellow heaps of good. Heaps and heaps and heaps! I should like a drink."

      "Come in," said Brassington again.

      "Very well," said Kirby as he came in; "but I won't take off my hat."

      Mr. Brassington had wine sent for, and Charles Kirby drank.

      "It 's too late to drink wine," he said when he had taken three or four glasses. "It 's a good thing that I don't care about the office, isn't it? Good night."

      The servant held the door open for him, and Brassington walked off; but when the master of the house was out of sight and hearing, Mr. Kirby stopped abruptly on the steps, and turning to the servant just before the door was shut upon him, said—

      "Who did you speak to to-day about your master's overcoat?"

      The man was so startled that he blurted out—

      "Lord, sir, I never said a word! It was the coachman who spoke to the young gentleman when the young gentleman saw it. He didn't borrow it, sir. He was a friend of Mr. Algernon's."

      "Was he?" said Mr. Kirby. "Well, all right," and he turned to go down the drive. He reflected that it was a mile and a half to his own home; but then, there was the storm still raging and he liked it, and, thank Heaven, he never got up earlier than he could help. He therefore proceeded to whistle, and as he whistled, to consider curiously the soul of that old friend of thirty years, whom he loved with all his heart. Next he made a picture of a young gentleman, a friend of his friend's son, coming and asking to see the Green Overcoat, and learning it by heart. Why? Mr. Kirby didn't know. He stacked the fact up on a shelf and left it there.