White and haggard, Stephen stood in shadow-way, his eyes fixed on Jack and Una with an expression of mingled astonishment and rage beyond all description.

Jack was too astonished by what seemed as much an apparition as a reality, to withdraw his arm from round Una’s waist, and it was she who first recovered self-possession enough to cross over to Mrs. Davenant and wake her.

Her movement seemed to recall Stephen to a sense of the situation, and in a moment he rose and coped with it.

Another man, a weaker man, coming thus suddenly upon what looked like the wreck of all his deeply-laid plans, upon seeing the girl, whom it was all-important he should secure for himself, in the arms of the man he hated and feared most in the world, would have given vent to his wrath and disappointment. But not so Stephen. By a vast effort, he suppressed the evil glance in his eyes, forced a smile to his compressed lips, and came across the room with outstretched hand and an expression of warmest and most affectionate greeting.

“My dear Jack!” he exclaimed, in his soft tones, almost rough in their warmth and geniality. “Now, this is a pleasant surprise. How do you do? how do you do?”

But almost before Jack knew it, Stephen had seized him by the hand, and was swinging it convulsively, smiling so that all his teeth glittered and shone in the candle-light.

Jack was taken by surprise, and returned the greeting cordially; indeed, what else could he do, seeing that he was in Stephen’s mother’s house, and making love to Stephen’s protegee?

“Quite a surprise!” said Stephen, laughing; and then, still talking to Jack, he crossed over and bent down to kiss his mother. “How do you do, my dear mother? Now don’t be angry at my taking you so unexpectedly.”

“Angry, my dear Stephen!” faltered Mrs. Davenant; and indeed, it was not anger so much as fear that shone in the timid eyes.

Then, having got himself completely under control, Stephen raised his eyes to Una, and held out his hand.

“And how do you do, Miss Rolfe? I hope your health has not suffered in this close London of ours. May I say that there are no signs of such an ill result in your face?”

Una gave him her hand, and smiled at him in her quiet, grave way.

“I am very well, thank you,” she said.

“That’s right,” said Stephen—“that’s right!”

And he stood and looked from one to the other, rubbing his white, soft hands, and smiling as if he were over-running with the milk of human kindness.

Meanwhile Mrs. Davenant had risen, and was fluttering about nervously.

“Have you dined, Stephen? We can get some dinner, or—or something directly.”

“My dear mother, I dined at my rooms two hours ago; but if you have a cup of tea, now; but don’t trouble—it does not matter in the slightest.”

Fresh tea was brought in, and Una, as usual, officiated. Stephen, leaning over a chair-back, talked to Jack and Mrs. Davenant, but his eyes turned continually on the graceful figure and the beautiful profile; and not one of them guessed the rage and fury which boiled and simmered under his calm and amiable exterior.

Already, as if some one had told him, he knew that Una had been out into the world. Her dress, her manner told him that; and while he smiled lovingly at his mother, he was crying out inwardly:

“Fool! fool! to trust Una to her.”

He took his cup of tea, his hand as steady as a rock, and chatted with Jack, full of the pleasantest interest.

Where had he been, and what had he been doing? and was he in those eccentric but charming rooms of his in the Temple still? and how was his friend Leonard Dagle?

He was full of questions, questions which Jack answered in his curt, brief fashion. And all the while Stephen was weighing the situation, realizing all its danger and peril, and determining on a course of action.

“Just one more cup, Miss Rolfe, if you please. Tea is my favorite beverage—I am quite an old washerwoman!”

Then he took his cup, and sat down beside her.

“Yes,” he said, not in a particularly low tone, but in his softest manner—“yes, I am glad to see that your health has not suffered in London. I trust you have been happy?”

Una looked up with a faint flush on her face.

“I have been—I am very, very happy,” she said, and Jack’s face flushed too with the delight at the accent on “I am.”

“That is right,” said Stephen, with the air of an old, old friend, “and I hope my mother has found some amusement for you—that she has shown you something of the great world.”

“Yes,” said Una, and she glanced at Mrs. Davenant, from whose pale face all traces of the calm serenity which had reigned there during the earlier part of the evening had entirely fled—“yes, I have been very gay—is not that the word? I have been to a ball, and to a picnic, and have seen all the sights.”

“And where was the ball?”

“At Lady Earlsley’s,” said Una.

Stephen opened his eyes and smiled.

“My dear Miss Rolfe, you have penetrated the most exclusive of social rings! Lady Earlsley’s! Come, that is very satisfactory; and Jack—Jack is my cousin—well, very nearly cousin, you know, I hope he has made himself useful and agreeable?”

Una glanced shyly and gravely at Jack—a glance that told everything, even if Stephen had not seen her in Jack’s arms.

“Yes,” she said, in a low voice, “Mr. Newcombe has been very—kind.”

Stephen smiled and showed all his teeth.

“I am afraid there will be nothing left for me to do,” he said.

Then, in a lower voice, he added:

“You will be glad to hear that I have news of your father.”

Una looked up breathlessly. The question had been hovering on her lips.

Stephen nodded.

“Yes, he wrote me from a place in Surrey called—tut—tut! The name has escaped me! They are quite well, and send their fondest love.”

Una’s eyes filled.

“Why did they leave the cottage so suddenly?” she said.

“Because your father wished for a change. I told you truth, you see, when I said that your departure would be good for him, and wean him from his seclusion.”

“Why does he not come to see me?” asked Una.

“He is coming, my dear Una,” said Stephen. “But at present he is very much engaged, and quite satisfied with my favorable report of your health and happiness. But come, I must not make you homesick. Were you not playing when I came in?”

Una flushed.

“Jack—Mr. Newcombe—was playing,” she said; “I was singing.”

“Pray don’t let me interrupt you,” said Stephen, genially, “or I shall feel like an intruder, and walk off again. Jack, go on with your music, my dear fellow.”

But Jack declined promptly, though politely.

“I’m afraid I must be off,” he said, looking at his watch, and then at Una, wistfully.

“Not yet,” said Stephen. “I have a whole budget of news to tell you. I dare say you wonder why I haven’t been up before this; but there was so much to do—a surprising deal.”

Jack nodded curtly. He certainly didn’t want to finish up this particular evening by hearing Stephen’s talk of the Hurst.

“No doubt,” he said. “You must come and dine with me and tell me. Good-night, Mrs. Davenant!”

Mrs. Davenant gave him her hand.

“Must you go, Jack?” she said, tremulously. “You—you will come again?”

“Most certainly I will,” said Jack, significantly.

Una had risen and gone to the piano to gather up the music which Jack, with his usual untidiness, had scattered about.

He followed her, and knelt down as if to help her.

“Good-night, my darling!” he murmured, touching her arm caressingly. “Don’t be afraid.”

Una raised her arm and touched it with her lips.

“Afraid—of whom?”

“Of—nobody!” said Jack, rather ungrammatically.

“Not of Mr. Davenant, who has been so kind?” she whispered, with a surprised look.

Jack bit his lip.

“No, no; certainly not. Oh, yes, he has been kind.”

Then with a long, loving look into her sweet face he crossed the room.

“Good-night, Stephen.”

“You are really going? Well, then, I’ll go with you,” said Stephen. “Mother will not mind my running away tonight, I am rather tired.”

And he stooped and kissed her, and went to the door.

It almost seemed as if he had forgotten Una; but he turned suddenly and held out his hand, a bland, benevolent smile on his pale face.

“Good-night, good-night,” he murmured, softly, and followed after Jack, who, the moment he reached the pavement, looked out for a hansom; but Stephen linked his arm in Jack’s, and said:

“Are you in a hurry, my dear Jack? If not, I’ll walk a little way with you; or will you come toward my rooms?”

Jack consented to the latter course, by turning in the direction of the “Albany” in silence.

He felt that Stephen was playing a part—why or wherefore he could not guess—and now that he had recovered from his surprise at Stephen’s sudden appearance, his old mistrust and dislike were returning to him.

They walked on in silence for some few moments, then Stephen said:

“I wanted to have a few words with you, my dear Jack. I should have written, but I felt that I could make myself understood better by word of mouth.”

Jack nodded.

“Of course, what I have to say concerns my poor uncle’s death and its consequences.”

Jack was silent still. He would not help him in the slightest.

“I cannot but feel that those consequences, while they have been distinctly beneficial to me, have—and to put it plainly, and I wish to speak plainly, my dear Jack—have been unfortunate for you.”

“Well,” said Jack, grimly.

“Well,” said Stephen, softly, “I had hoped, I still hope, that you will allow me the happiness of setting right, to some extent, the wrong—yes, I will say wrong—done you by my uncle’s will.”

“That’s impossible,” said Jack, gravely.

“But, my dear Jack, why not? It is my right. Have you any idea of the fortune——”

“Not the slightest,” said Jack, breaking in abruptly, “and it’s no business of mine; large or small, I hope you’ll enjoy it. It was the squire’s to do as he liked with, and I suppose he did as he liked; and there’s an end of it.”

Stephen winced and bit his lip.

“And now,” said Jack, quietly, but with his heart beating wildly, “I want a word with you, Stephen.”

“Say on, my dear Jack. If there is anything I can do for you——”

“Yes, there is,” said Jack. “I want to know—I want you to tell me—something respecting Miss Rolfe.”

“Miss Rolfe!” said Stephen, softly.

“Yes,” continued Jack. “You’ll want to know, before I go any further, on what grounds I ask for information. I’ll tell you. I have asked Miss Rolfe to be my wife.”

Stephen feigned a start of astonishment.

“My dear Jack, isn’t that rather sudden—rather premature?”

“It may be sudden, I don’t know whether it is premature; that’s for Miss Rolfe to decide. And she has decided.”

Stephen moistened his lips; they burned like coals.

“She has accepted you?”

“She has,” said Jack, who felt reluctant to utter one word more than was necessary.

Stephen pulled up and held out his hand.

“My dear Jack, I congratulate you. I congratulate you,” he exclaimed, fervently. “You are indeed a happy man.”

Jack, confounded, allowed his hand to be wrung by the soft, white palm that burned hot and dry.

“You are a lucky fellow, my dear Jack. Miss Rolfe is one in a thousand. I question if there is a more beautiful girl in London—and her disposition. You are indeed a lucky fellow.”

“Thanks, thanks!” said Jack, still overwhelmed by this flood of good will. “And now, perhaps you will tell me what I had better do in the affair! You see I find her visiting—settled, rather, at your mother’s house, and neither she nor your mother seem to know why or wherefore——”

Stephen interrupted him with a pressure of the arm.

“I understand, my dear Jack; your anxiety for information is only natural. I am very glad I came up this evening—very glad! And now, as I feel rather tired, would you mind coming up to my rooms? and we’ll have a hansom, after all.”

Jack hailed a cab, and they were rattled to the Albany.

Of course they could not talk, and Stephen had therefore time to perfect his scheme; for he had already begun to plot and plan.

The door of the chambers was opened by Slummers, his tall, square figure dressed in black, his discreet, shifty eyes absolutely veiled under his lids.

“Let us have some Apollinaris and the liquor-case, Slummers,” said Stephen, “and that box of cigars which Mr. Newcombe liked. Sit down, my dear Jack.”

And he wheeled forward a chair facing the light, and took one for himself, so that his own face should be shaded.

Jack looked round the room while Slummers brought the tray.

The four walls were nearly covered with books, all of them of the dryest and most serious kind. Where any space was left, it was filled up with portraits of eminent divines and philanthropists, and every article in the room was neatly and methodically arranged. In fact, it presented as marked a contrast to Jack’s rooms as it was possible to conceive.

Jack had not been inside it for years, but he remembered distinctly how he used to loathe the room and its “fixings.”

“Now, my dear Jack, pray help yourself—those cigars I know you approve; I heard you praise them at the Hurst, and I brought a box at once.”

“Thanks,” said Jack, and he lit a cigar.

Stephen mixed the Apollinaris and brandy; and leaned back serene and amiable.

“And now, my dear Jack, I am ready to answer all questions.”

Jack looked down and frowned thoughtfully. He did not know how to put them. Stephen smiled maliciously behind his hand.

“You want to know how it comes about that Miss Rolfe is under my mother’s charge—under my charge, I may say?”

“Under yours?” said Jack, grimly.

Stephen nodded.

“It is a very simple affair, Jack. There is no mystery. The fact is, I have known Miss Rolfe’s father for some years. He is a very good fellow, but very eccentric.”

“I know,” said Jack; “I’ve seen him.”

Stephen started, and concealed his expression of surprise by reaching for his glass.

“Ah, then, no doubt, you noticed that his appearance and manner does not correspond with the station he occupies?”

“I did,” said Jack.

“Yes, yes, just so. Well, my dear Jack, my poor friend Rolfe has been in early life unfortunate—money matters, which I never quite understand. Like most men of his kind, he got disgusted with the world and hid himself—there is no other word for it. But it is one thing to hide yourself and quite another to bury your children. My friend Rolfe felt this when he awoke to the fact that his daughter had grown from a child to a young woman, and like a sensible man he applied to one who was conversant with the world, and one in whom he could have, I trust, full confidence—my self.”

Jack sat silently regarding the white, calm face with grim, observant eyes.

“He did not appeal to an old friendship in vain. I undertook the charge of Miss Rolfe on one condition. I may say two—one on her side, one on mine. Hers was that she should live with my mother, under her protecting wing, as it were; mine was that I should be the absolute guardian of the young girl committed to my charge.”

Jack stared.

“You are Una’s guardian?” he said, at last, with unconcealed surprise, as Gideon Rolfe’s curse upon the race of Davenants flashed upon his memory.

Stephen Davenant smiled.

“You are surprised, my dear Jack. But think! It is very natural. Unless I had unquestionable control over the young lady, how could I answer for her safety? How guard her against the attacks of fortune hunters——”

Jack started.

“Fortune hunters!” he exclaimed. “Do you mean to say that Una is an heiress?”

Stephen’s face had flushed and turned deadly pale.

He had actually been thinking of Una Davenant while he had been talking of Una Rolfe.

“You did not hear me out, my dear Jack,” he said, softly, recovering his composure instantly. “I was going to say against the attack of fortune hunters who might besiege her under the impression that, as my ward, she would be possessed of wealth, instead of being, as you know, absolutely penniless.”

Jack nodded.

“At any rate,” he said, grimly, “I was not so deceived.”

“My dear Jack!” exclaimed Stephen, reproachfully, “do you suppose that I do not know that! You, who are the soul of honor and disinterestedness, are not likely to be mistaken for a fortune hunter by anyone, least of all by me, who know and love you so well!”

Jack winced, as the vision of Lady Bell rose before his eyes.

“Go on,” he said, impatiently.

“Well, my dear Jack,” said Stephen with a smile, and rubbing his hands softly, “is it not rather for you to go on? I am Una’s guardian, you are her lover.”

“I see,” said Jack, rising and pacing up and down the room. “You want me to ask your consent formally. Well, I do so.”

Stephen laughed as if at an excellent joke.

“What a grim, thorough-going old bulldog you are, my dear Jack!” he exclaimed affectionately. “You ask my consent, as if you did not know that you have it, and my best, my very heartiest wishes into the bargain. But, Jack, don’t you see why I am so pleased—why this makes me so happy? It is because now you will be compelled to do me the favor of taking a share of the poor squire’s money!”

Jack started as if he had been stung.

“You see, my dear fellow! you can’t marry on nothing—now, can you? Love must have a cottage, and—but I beg your pardon, my dear fellow! I am, perhaps, going too far. Much to my grief and regret you have never confided in me as I should have wished, and perhaps—I hope that it may be so—you have some means——”

Jack paced up and down, the perspiration standing on his knitted brow.

In the ecstatic joy which had fallen upon him like a glamour during those few short hours with Una, he had absolutely forgotten that he was penniless, and in debt, and without a prospect in the wide world.

And now it all rushed back upon him; every softly-spoken word of Stephen’s fell upon him like a drop in an icy shower bath, and awoke him from his dream to the stern reality.

What was he to do? Great Heaven, was he actually driven to accept Stephen’s charity?

A shudder ran through him, a pang of worse than wounded pride.

Become a pensioner of Stephen Davenant’s! No, it was simply impossible. White and haggard with the struggle that was going on within him, he turned upon the smiling face.

“What you want—what you propose, is impossible,” he said, hoarsely. “I cannot and will not do it. I would rather beg my bread——”

Stephen smiled. It was a delicious moment for him, and he prolonged it.

“My dear Jack! what would Mr. Gideon Rolfe say if I gave his daughter to a beggar? I use your own words. It is ridiculous. But come, sit down. Grieved as I am at what I must call your mistaken obstinacy, I can’t help being touched by it. You always were willful, my dear Jack, always. Alas! it was that very willfulness that estranged you from my uncle——”

“No more of that,” said Jack, sternly.

Stephen made a gesture with his hand.

“And it would, if another man were in my place, rob you of your sweetheart; but it shall not. I am determined to prove to you, my dear Jack, that my desire to be a friend is sincere and true. Let me think. There may be some loophole in your pride which I can creep in at.”

Jack went back to his seat and lit another cigar, and Stephen appeared lost in thought, but in reality he watched through his fingers, and gloated over the despair and trouble depicted on Jack’s miserable countenance.

“Yes, I have it. Come, Jack, you won’t refuse assistance when it comes from the hand of her Majesty? You won’t object to a government appointment?”

“A government appointment?” said Jack, vaguely.

Stephen nodded.

“Yes,” he went on. “By a singular chance I have acquired some influence with the present government. One of these men has a seat in Wealdshire, which really hangs on the Hurst influence. The squire never interfered, but I could do so; and—you see, my dear Jack—a snug little sinecure, say of a thousand a year! It is not much, it is true; but Una has not been accustomed to wealth so long as to feel a thousand a year to be poverty.”

Jack rose and paced the room. Was he dreaming, or was this a different Stephen to the one he knew and disliked? He had heard of sudden wealth as suddenly transforming the nature of a man. Had Stephen’s nature undergone this marvelous change?

He doubted and mistrusted him, but here was the absolute evidence. What could Stephen gain by this generosity? Nothing—absolutely nothing. It was strange, passing strange; but who was he that he should refuse to believe in the generosity and virtue of another man, especially when that generosity was exerted on his behalf?

Struggling against his suspicion and prejudice, Jack strode round the table and held out his hand.

“Stephen, I—I have wronged you. You must be a good fellow to behave in this way, and I—well, I have been a brute, and don’t deserve this on your part.”

Stephen winced under the hard grip of the warm, honest hand.

“Not a word more, my dear Jack; not a word more,” he exclaimed. “This—this is really very affecting. You move me very much.”

And he pressed his spotless handkerchief to his eyes.

Jack’s ardor cooled at once, and the old disgust and suspicion rose; but he choked them down again, and sat down.

“Not a word more,” said Stephen, with a gulp, as if he were swallowing a flood of tears. “I have long, long felt your coldness and distrust, my dear Jack, but I vowed to live it down, and prove to you that you have wronged me. Believe me that my good fortune—my unexpected fortune—was quite imbittered to me by the thought that you would misjudge me.”

Jack pulled at his cigar grimly. Stephen was on the wrong track, and he saw it, and hastened to change it.

“But now, my dear Jack, we shall understand each other. You will believe me that I have your welfare deeply at heart. Who else have I to think of—except my mother, my dear mother? And we may conclude that our little negotiation as suitor and guardian is ended. Eh, Jack? You shall have the appointment and Una—lucky fellow that you are—and I shall be rewarded by seeing you happy.”

Jack nodded. The mention of Una had filled him with gratitude. He could not forget that he owed her in two ways to Stephen.

“You are a good fellow, Stephen,” he said, “and you deserve your luck. After all, you’ll make a better master of Hurst than I should. You’ll take care of it.”

Stephen sighed. He was going to gloat again.

“I don’t know. I wish to do my duty. It is an immense sum of money, Jack; immense.”

Jack nodded again.

“I’m glad of it,” he said, easily. “I don’t envy you. I did once, and not very long ago. But I rank Una above the Hurst even, and if I have her, you are welcome to the Hurst.”

Stephen winced, and looked at him from the corners of his eyes. Was there any significance in the speech? But Jack’s face was open and frank, as usual.

“That’s a bargain,” said Stephen, laughing.

Jack thought a moment.

“But what about Mr. Rolfe?” he said, dubiously.

“Leave him to me,” said Stephen, confidently. “I will manage him. And, by the way, I think for the present that we had better keep our little engagement quiet. You understand? He had better hear it from my lips, and—you quite see, Jack?”

Jack didn’t quite see. He would have preferred to go to Gideon Rolfe and have the matter out—fight it out if need be—but he was, so to speak, in Stephen’s hands.

“Very well,” he said.

“And now have another cigar, my dear Jack, you’ve eaten that one.”

But Jack was anxious to go. He wanted to be alone to think over this strange interview, and realize that Una was his.

“Well, if you will go,” said Stephen, reluctantly; “but mind, I shall expect you to make this your second home.”

Jack glanced round rather dubiously.

“And of course we shall see you at the Square?”

This invitation Jack accepted heartily, and once more he wrung Stephen’s hand.

“Good-night, good-night, my dear Jack,” said Stephen, and he took a candle from the table to light him down the stairs, and smiled till every tooth in his head showed like a grave-stone.

Then, as Jack’s heavy step faded away and was lost, Stephen went back into the room, closed the door, and sinking into a chair sat motionless, with folded arms and haggard face.

“Yes, yes,” he muttered, “I have played the best game—I have gulled him. Another man would have attempted to thwart him openly, and have raised a storm. My plan is the wiser. But to think that fate should have played me such a trick! and I thought she was safe and secure!” and he wiped the drops of cold sweat from his knitted brow. “Fool, fool that I was! Better to have left her there in the heart of the Forest! And yet—and yet—” he mused, “it is not so bad. The man might have been more powerful and cunning than the idiot whom I have in the hollow of my hand. Curse him! curse him! I never look on his face but I tremble. I hate him!” and he stretched out his closed hand as if with a curse.

As he did so it came into contact with Jack’s glass.

In a paroxysm of fury he caught up the glass and dashed it into the fire-place.

It relieved and brought him to his senses.

With a gesture of self-contempt he rose and rang the bell.

Slummers stole in with his noiseless step and stood beside the table with downcast eyes, which, nevertheless, had taken in the broken tumbler.

“I’ve broken a glass, Slummers,” said Stephen, with affected carelessness. “Never mind, leave it till the morning. Now, then, what have you learned?”

Slummers cleared his throat, and barely opening his thin lips, replied:

“A great deal, considering the time, sir. The young lady at Mrs. Davenant’s——”

“I know all about her,” said Stephen, breaking in impatiently. “What about Mr. Newcombe?”

Nowise embarrassed, Slummers wiped his dry lips with a handkerchief as spotless as his master’s.

“It is as you expected, sir. Mr. Newcombe is in difficulties.”

“Ah!” said Stephen, with evident satisfaction.

“He has been playing and giving paper. There are some old bills out, too. These are in the hands of Moss the money-lender.”

Stephen nodded and rubbed his hands.

“I know Moss—a hard man. Go on.”

“But they say,” continued Slummers, raising his eyes for a moment to his master’s face, “that Mr. Newcombe is going to set things right by marrying an heiress.”

Stephen smiled and leaned back in his chair.

“Oh, they do, do they; and who is this most fortunate young lady?”

“Lady Isabel Earlsley.”

Stephen started forward.

“What!”

“Lady Isabel Earlsley,” repeated Slummers, without the slightest change of voice or countenance.

“No—it’s a lie!” said Stephen, with a chuckle. “Where did you hear it?”

“At the club. It is the talk of town, sir. Mr. Newcombe has been in close attendance upon her ladyship for some time. They say that her ladyship’s brougham nearly ran over him, and that she took him home. It is true; her own coachman told me.”

Stephen leaned back and hid his face with his hand, his busy brain at work on this last turn of the wheel.

“Go on,” he said.

“That is all, sir.”

Stephen was silent for a minute or two, then he turned to the writing table and wrote for some minutes.

“Go to Moss to-morrow morning,” he said, “and tell him not to press Mr. Newcombe, and I don’t think he will require more than the hint—but you may say I will buy all Mr. Newcombe’s bills at a fair price. Mind! I want every I O U and bill that Mr. Newcombe gives. You understand?”

“I understand, Mr. Stephen,” said Slummers, and a faint, malicious smile stole over his face.

“And if Mr. Moss likes to oblige Mr. Newcombe with a little loan, I will take the bill. You understand?”

Slummers nodded.

“Here is the letter to Moss for his own satisfaction. He will not mention my name.”

Slummers took the note. Stephen passed his hand over his forehead, and turned his back to the light.

“Any—any other news, Slummers?”

Slummers smiled behind his hand.

“I have been to Cheltenham Terrace. We were rightly informed, sir. Old Mr. Treherne is dead, and Miss Treherne has disappeared.”

Stephen drew a breath of relief.

“Indeed,” he said. “Very good. Let me see, is there anything else?”

Slummers coughed.

“Nothing, sir, except to remind you that you have to speak at the charitable meeting tomorrow night.”

“Ah, yes, thank you, very good, Slummers. Be good enough to hand me the last charitable reports. Good-night.”