“I believe you have your directions,” said Mr. Maturin. “_And_ I’ve had them for hours!” said the boy sleepily. A nice boy. II We live in a world of generalisations, which the wise never tire of telling the foolish to mistrust and with which the foolish never tire of pointing the failures of the wise. There is one, for instance, that lays it down that a bad conscience is a sorry bedfellow. Yet Mr. Maturin, whose conscience could not have been but in the blackest disorder, immediately went to sleep in the car: to awake only when, the car having stopped, the young chauffeur flung open the door of the tonneau and said: “If you please, sir!” Mr. Maturin found himself before the doors of a mansion of noble proportions. From the head of the broad steps he looked about him and recognised the long narrow park of trees as that of Eaton Square. A voice said: “Come in, Mr. Maturin. A wretched night.” “Thank you,” said Mr. Maturin. “It is.” Within, in a vast hall floored with black and white marble, he found himself faced by an old gentleman who, as the small seedy man had said, was even taller than himself. Mr. Maturin bowed. The tall old gentleman said: “It is good of you to have come, Mr. Maturin. I thank you. I must confess, however, that I expected you would.” “It is a rare pleasure for me, Sir Guy, to do what is expected of me,” smiled Mr. Maturin. “You know me then! You recognised me to-night at your--your club?” Mr. Maturin smiled at that. It was, let’s face it, a low club. But, what with one thing and another, he had had to resign from all his others. He only said: “Naturally. Who does not know you, Sir Guy!” The deep old eyes seemed to pierce the younger man with a savage contempt. “In coming here to-night, Mr. Maturin,” said old Sir Guy, “am I to understand that you are serious? You have, as you may know, something of a reputation for having made an art of misbehaviour.”