John Bradfield’s face grew grey at these words. His throat had become in a moment so dry, that the words he tried to utter in answer or comment would not come, but resolved themselves into a choking cough. Nobody noticed this, for the Graham-Shutes had their attention fully taken up with Marrable himself. So Alfred went on with a sentimental cheerfulness: “Why, that young fellow was born with a golden spoon in his mouth, and no mistake. Let’s see, he must be three or four and twenty by this time. Wish I could come across him! If he’s anything like a chip of the old block, it would be a good day for me if I did. What d--d slippery nutcrackers these are of yours, John! Do you know what’s become of young Wryde, eh?” “I haven’t the least idea,” answered John Bradfield, as, his patience worn out, he rose from the table. “As his father died in Australia, I should think your best chance of hearing of him would be to prosecute your inquiries over there.” Alfred Marrable, who had by this time, not without a little difficulty, gained his feet, stared at his old friend and host with a sudden portentous gravity. His familiarity, his affectionateness were gone; in their place was the solemnity of outraged dignity. Supporting himself with one hand against the table, and nodding two or three times before he spoke, to prepare his friend for the awful change which had come over his sentiments, he said, in a spasmodic and tremulous voice: “Mr. Bradfield, I beg your pardon. I repeat,” said he, with another dignified pause, “I repeat, I beg your pardon. If I had known, I should say, if I had been aware that my presence in Australia would be considered more desirable to you than my presence here, I would have gone there--I say, sir, I would have gone there, sooner than intrude here, where I am not wanted, where,” and he looked round at the Graham-Shutes, and felt a muddled surprise to note that they looked more amused than sympathetic, “where it seems I am not wanted. It is not too late, while a railway line runs between here and London, to repair my er--er--error.” Drawing himself up to his full height, Mr. Marrable concluded, “I wish you all, gentlemen”--here he paused a little, for effect with disastrous results--“I wish you all a ver--happy--new--year.” Unfortunately for the dignity of his exit, Alfred Marrable forgot that he had John Bradfield’s clothes on. And the appearance of his portly figure, with the arms drawn back by the tight fit of his coat, and a series of ridges between the shoulders not intended by the tailor, was more provocative of laughter than of indignant sorrow.