“——Make a fool of yourself, like Vane.” “I am not so sure that is fair to Vane,” said John; “no one can go through what he did, and keep perfectly sound.” “I’ll leave it to the crowd,” said the Major; “what say you, boys?” All were unanimous. There was no excuse for a crime like Vane’s. Evidently they all knew Vane. He was damned without one dissenting voice. “Who was Vane?” said I, “and what did he do? Which commandment did he break? He must have made merry with them all—or, rather, have kept them all to get such a judgment in this club.” A babel of voices arose. All these men were intimate friends; and they were sitting in one of the small smoking-rooms of the Columbian Club in New York. John had just engaged himself to be married, and we had given him a dinner; or, as Pel Schuyler put it, we were “recording his mortgage.” Schuyler was a real-estate broker. “Now, look here,” said John, “how many of you fellows know Vane personally?” No one, apparently. There was a moment’s silence. Then the Major spoke up. “Bah!” said he, “I have heard the story these ten years.” “So have I!” chimed in several others. “My brother knew Vane in Paris,” said Pel. “I had it from Mrs. Malgam herself,” simpered Daisy Blake, fatuously “Well, at least, I know nothing of it,” I said; “tell it for my benefit, John.” “Yes, yes,” cried they, “let’s hear the correct and only version according to John.” It was that critical moment in a dinner, when the fireworks of champagne have sputtered out, and the burgundy invites to somnolence. All had lit their cigars, and felt more like listening than talking. John did not smoke.