In the brand-new room with its brand-new furniture and rows of newly bound books sat, on the edge of one of the morocco chairs, a thin, hatchet-faced man, dressed like a clerk. He would have served very well as a model for Uriah Heep; but instead of that “’umble” personage’s red hair he wore a palpable wig, whose hyacinthine curls, clustering in pious falsehood upon the cadaverous forehead, made the face look like a skull; indeed, being close shaven and without a single eyebrow or eyelash, it would have closely resembled one under any conditions. Bartley Bradstone shut the door close. “Well, Mowle,” he said, with marked coldness, “this is an unexpected pleasure. What has brought you down here?” Mr. Mowle stretched his thin, colorless lips by way of a smile, and coughed apologetically behind a huge, bony hand. “I thought it best to run down, sir,” he said, and his voice matched his person, being hollow and strained, as if his throat were totally devoid of moisture. “I considered the question most anxiously, Mr. Bartley, and I thought it best to run down,” and he glanced upward with a peculiar expression of servile obsequiousness. “What’s wrong?” demanded Bartley Bradstone, eyeing him with suppressed irritation. “Why didn’t you telegraph, whatever it is?” Mr. Mowle fingered his chin and blinked his lashless lids. “The wire’s useful, but not always to be trusted, especially in country places like this. The young lady at the office is generally so curious, having so little to do, Mr. Bartley. I might have written, but I thought from what you said that time was important; so I ran down.” “Yes, yes, I see you have,” said Bartley Bradstone, with ill-concealed impatience; “and now you’re here you had better stop to dinner----” Mr. Mowle shook his head. “No, no, thank you, sir. There is a train in an hour and a half’s time, and I’ve kept the fly----” Bartley Bradstone frowned. “There is no occasion for that,” he said, with bombastic pride. “I dare say I can find something to take you back to the station.” He rang the bell. “Pay the flyman and discharge him,” he said to the footman, “and order the dogcart.” Mr. Mowle, pawing at his lank chin, watched the pompously attired footman with a vapid air, and then allowed his eyes to roam round the extravagant decorations and furniture of the room. “You’ll have some wine?” said Bartley Bradstone. “Thank you, sir; thank you, Mr. Bartley; but I’m a teetotaler, if you remember.” Bartley Bradstone nodded. “Oh, yes, I remember. But what is it?” Mr. Mowle produced a pocketbook from the interior of his shiny frock coat, and, taking out a paper, handed it to Bartley Bradstone. “You can rely upon that information, sir,” he said in his hollow voice. Bartley Bradstone looked at the paper. “When did you get this?” he asked in a constrained voice. “At a quarter past ten this morning. I considered it, and caught the eleven fast train, Mr. Bartley,” he replied, meekly.