“Home?” This almost hopefully. “No.” “Where?” “Up there! I think he ran against somebody.” Mr. Mergleson scrutinized his subordinate’s face for a second. Then he listened intently; both men listened intently. “Have to fetch him out of that,” said Mr. Mergleson, suddenly preparing for brisk activity. Thomas bent lower over the banisters. “_The Lord Chancellor!_” he whispered with white lips and a sideways gesture of his head. “What about ’im?” said Mergleson, arrested by something in the manner of Thomas. Thomas’s whisper became so fine that Mr. Mergleson drew nearer to catch it and put up a hand to his ear. Thomas repeated the last remark. “He’s just through there—on the landing—cursing and swearing—’orrible things—more like a mad turkey than a human being.” “Where’s Bealby?” “He must almost ’ave run into ’im,” said Thomas after consideration. “But now—where is he?” Thomas pantomimed infinite perplexity. Mr. Mergleson reflected and decided upon his line. He came up the service staircase, lifted his chin and with an air of meek officiousness went through the green door. There was no one now on the landing, there was nothing remarkable on the landing except a broken tumbler, but half-way up the grand staircase stood the Lord Chancellor. Under one arm the great jurist carried a soda water syphon and he grasped a decanter of whisky in his hand. He turned sharply at the sound of the green baize door and bent upon Mr. Mergleson the most terrible eyebrows that ever, surely! adorned a legal visage. He was very red in the face and savage-looking. “Was it _you_,” he said with a threatening gesture of the decanter, and his voice betrayed a noble indignation, “Was it _you_ who slapped me behind?” “Slapped you behind, me lord??” “Slapped me _behind_. Don’t I speak—plainly?” “I—such a libbuty, me lord!” “Idiot! I ask you a plain question—” With almost inconceivable alacrity Mr. Mergleson rushed up three steps, leapt forward and caught the syphon as it slipped from his lordship’s arm. He caught it, but at a price. He overset and, clasping it in his hands, struck his lordship first with the syphon on the left shin and then butted him with a face that was still earnestly respectful in the knees. His lordship’s legs were driven sideways, so that they were no longer beneath his centre of gravity. With a monosyllabic remark of a topographical nature his lordship collapsed upon Mr. Mergleson. The decanter flew out of his grasp and smashed presently with emphasis upon the landing below. The syphon, escaping from the wreckage of Mr. Mergleson and drawn no doubt by a natural affinity, rolled noisily from step to step in pursuit of the decanter....