He looks wearily round the room; it has become shockingly disordered; the drawers of the cabinet are still on the floor; the chairs which fell are still upside down; the broken whip lies in the corner; he is extremely thirsty, and he has not an idea where the mineral waters or the syphon of seltzer, or even the glasses, are kept. In a single quarter of an hour without Critchett order and harmony have been replaced by chaos. “What miserable, helpless creatures we are!” he reflects. “Of course it all comes from the utterly false system of one person leaning on others.” Yet he reluctantly realises that this false system has its merits, as far as individual comfort goes. At that moment there is a sharp ring at the door-bell, and a moment later still a male voice cries: “Can I come in, Bertram?” “You, Stanhope?” says Bertram, in extreme surprise. “Myself,” replies the new-comer. He is Sir Henry Stanhope, the Home Secretary of the actual Government. Bertram was his fag at Eton, and a good deal of cordial feeling has always existed between them, despite the vast and irreconcilable difference of their political and social opinions. Sir Henry regards him as a maniac, but an interesting and lovable maniac. Bertram regards him in return as a hopeless Philistine, but a Philistine who means well and has good points, and who is, in the exercise of his horrible office, admirably conscientious. His conscientiousness has not, however, prevented him from allowing to go to the gallows a victim of prejudice who killed his wife because he was tired of seeing her red hair--a misguided æsthete for whose release Bertram pleaded in vain. Since the time of this unfortunate affair there has been some chillness in the relations of Stanhope and himself. The Philistine minister looks at the disorder of the chamber with some surprise, and seats himself unbidden. “My dear Bertram,” he says, rather distantly, “old acquaintance should not be forgot. Its memories bring me here to-day.” “Thanks,” says Bertram, equally coldly; and looks an interrogation. Sir Henry coughs. “You have a good many _protégés_ amongst the lower classes, I think?” “I deny that there is a lower class.” “I know you do. But let us for the moment use the language of a benighted and unkind world. Your peculiar views of duty have led you into forming these associations which cannot be agreeable to your taste. But did it not occur to you that they might be compromising as well as--as rather unrefined?” “Pray explain yourself,” says Bertram, with hostility in his tone. Sir Henry feels nettled at the manner in which his amiably intended visit is received. “Certainly,” he says. “In two words, you have a friend of the name of Hopper?” Bertram colours. “Frederic Hopper, yes. A very unfortunate person, originally a victim of the London police.”