The morning papers had been glanced at and tossed aside, and the gentleman in question, while bathing himself in the warm glow of the fire, was carefully scraping and polishing his well-kept nails, pausing from time to time to blow off tiny scraps of dust; and at last he took two steps sideways noiselessly and touched the stud of an electric bell. A spare-looking, highly respectable man answered the summons and stood waiting till his principal spoke, which was not until the right hand little finger nail, which was rather awkward to get at, had been polished, when without raising his eyes, John Garstang spoke. "Mr Harry arrived?" "No, sir." "What time did he leave yesterday?" "Not here yesterday, sir." "The day before?" "Not here the day before yesterday, sir." "What time did he leave on Monday?" "About five minutes after you left for Brighton, sir." "Thank you, Barlow; that will do. By the way--" The clerk who had nearly reached the door, turned, and there was again silence, while a few specks were blown from where they had fallen inside one of the spotless cuffs. "Send Mr Harry to me as soon as he arrives." "Yes, sir," and the man left the room; while after standing for a few moments thinking, John Garstang walked to one of the tin boxes in the rack and drew down a lid marked, "Wilton, Number 1." Taking from this a packet of papers carefully folded and tied up with green silk, he seated himself at his massive knee-hole table, and was in the act of untying the ribbon, when the door opened and a short, thick-set young man of five-and-twenty, with a good deal of French waiter in his aspect, saving his clothes, entered, passing one hand quickly over his closely-shaven face, and then taking the other to help to square the great, dark, purple-fringed, square, Joinville tie, fashionable in the early fifties. "Want to see me, father?" "Yes. Shut the baize door." "Oh, you needn't be so particular. It won't be the first time Barlow has heard you bully me." "Shut the baize door, if you please, sir," said Garstang, blandly. "Oh, very well!" cried the young man, and he unhooked and set free a crimson baize door whose spring sent it to with a thud and a snap. Then John Garstang's manner changed. An angry frown gathered on his forehead, and he placed his elbows on the table, joined the tips of his fingers to form an archway, and looked beneath it at the young man who had entered. "You are two hours late this morning." "Yes, father." "You did not come here at all yesterday." "No, father." "Nor the day before." "No, father." "Then will you have the goodness to tell me, sir, how long you expect this sort of thing to go on? You are not of the slightest use to me in my professional business." "No, and never shall be," said the young man coolly. "That's frank. Then will you tell me why I should keep and supply with money such a useless drone?" "Because you have plenty, and a lot of it ought to be mine by right."