“What do you want here?” he asked, at length. “Are you the father of one of the servants?” “I’m the father of all the servants in the house,” said Mr. Piper, sweetly. “Don’t answer me, sir,” said Mr. Cox, with much pomposity; “you’re an eyesore to an honest man, a vulture, a harpy.” Mr. Piper pondered. “How do you know what’s an eyesore to an honest man?” he asked, at length. Mr. Cox smiled scornfully. “Where is your warrant or order, or whatever you call it?” he demanded. “I’ve shown it to Mrs. Cox,” said Mr. Piper. “Show it to me,” said the other. “I’ve complied with the law by showing it once,” said Mr. Piper, bluffing, “and I’m not going to show it again.” Mr. Cox stared at him disdainfully, beginning at his little sleek grey head and travelling slowly downwards to his untidy boots and then back again. He repeated this several times, until Mr. Piper, unable to bear it patiently, began to eye him in the same fashion. “What are you looking at, vulture?” demanded the incensed Mr. Cox. “Three spots o’ grease on a dirty weskit,” replied Mr. Piper, readily, “a pair o’ bow legs in a pair o’ somebody else’s trousers, and a shabby coat wore under the right arm, with carrying off”—he paused a moment as though to make sure—“with carrying off of a drawing-room clock.” He regretted this retort almost before he had finished it, and rose to his feet with a faint cry of alarm as the heated Mr. Cox first locked the door and put the key in his pocket and then threw up the window. “Vulture!” he cried, in a terrible voice. “Yes, sir,” said the trembling Mr. Piper. Mr. Cox waved his hand towards the window. “Fly,” he said, briefly. Mr. Piper tried to form his white lips into a smile, and his knees trembled beneath him. “Did you hear what I said?” demanded Mr. Cox. “What are you waiting for? If you don’t fly out of the window I’ll throw you out.” “Don’t touch me,” screamed Mr. Piper, retreating behind a table, “it’s all a mistake. All a joke. I’m not a broker’s man. Ha! ha!” “Eh?” said the other; “not a broker’s man? What are you, then?” In eager, trembling tones Mr. Piper told him, and, gathering confidence as he proceeded, related the conversation which had led up to his imposture. Mr. Cox listened in a dazed fashion, and as he concluded threw himself into a chair, and gave way to a terrible outburst of grief. “The way I’ve worked for that woman,” he said, brokenly, “to think it should come to this! The deceit of the thing; the wickedness of it. My heart is broken; I shall never be the same man again—never!” Mr. Piper made a sympathetic noise. “It’s been very unpleasant for me,” he said, “but my niece is so masterful.” “I don’t blame you,” said Mr. Cox, kindly; “shake hands.” They shook hands solemnly, and Mr. Piper, muttering something about a draught, closed the window. “You might have been killed in trying to jump out of that window,” said Mr. Cox; “fancy the feelings of those two deceitful women then.”