What Lord Benthorpe had done and was, all England knows: the conqueror of Raub and the hero of Pútti-Ghâl. Mr Burden was a merchant worth at most but £257,000, and that locked up entirely in his business; but no difference of fortune affected the demeanour of the more illustrious man. With the commercial classes of three European and fourteen Colonial capitals Lord Benthorpe had been famous for that rare power of putting his visitors at their ease: he did not fail with Mr Burden. For though that unaffected man broke into a cold sweat under his first addresses, a short three-quarters of an hour in the company of the soldier-politician restored his power of speech and made him feel the presence of a friend. * * * * * When it was evident that Mr Burden had entered this happier phase, Lord Benthorpe, settling into an air of business, asked, as he had asked so many in his active and useful life, what he could _do_ for his guest. It was a formula he had been taught from the nursery: he had used it upon inferiors of every grade, and always with success—unless I except an unfortunate interview with a cabman which in no way regards these pages: for whereas the cabman on that long past day had poured out with many oaths a list of incongruous things which Lord Benthorpe might do for him, and closed it with a refusal of all save the payment of the mere fare he had called to collect, every other visitor, from the Secretary of the Society for the Prevention of Diseases to the Sendar of Raub had been charmed to admiration by the manner in which the phrase was delivered. Mr Burden felt the spell, and it was with evident gratitude in his voice that he declared himself arrived to discuss the matter mentioned in his letter. Lord Benthorpe smiled without effort, and tapping the table before him with his fingers as was his wont, murmured twice: “By all means.... By all means.” Then there was silence in that great dark room for the space of nearly four minutes. A clock ticked solemnly in a corner, out of sight, and every now and then Lord Benthorpe tapped again with his fingers upon the table; but for these there was no sound to mask Mr Burden’s breathing. At last Lord Benthorpe pushed back his chair, crossed his legs, supported his left elbow on his knee, his head upon his left hand, and said again in that low meditative tone, which was so full of responsibility and reminiscence: “By all means....” Without, in some remote ante-chamber of the great building, a servant played upon a gong of restrained and ample tones; the house was filled with the summons, but softened as it was, Mr Burden found in it a suggestion rather than a command that he should dress for dinner. With this object he rose. His host preceded him, lit a candle with his own hands, and showed the way up the staircase. At its head opened a very wide corridor, lit from above by skylights, and hung with pictures which were part of the glory of the house.