“I know what it meant--now. The solution,” said Lord Tilbury bitterly, “was vouchsafed to me only an hour ago by the boy himself.” “Has he arrived then?” “Yes, he has arrived. And he travelled on a tramp steamer.” “A tramp steamer! But why?” “Why? Why? How should I know why? Last night, he informed me, he slept in his clothes.” “Slept in his clothes? Why?” “How should I know why? Who am I to analyse the motives of a boy who appears to be a perfect imbecile?” “But have you seen him?” “No. He rang up on the telephone from the office of a house agent in Valley Fields. He has taken a house there and wished to give my name as a reference.” “Valley Fields? Why Valley Fields?” “Don’t keep on saying why,” cried Lord Tilbury tempestuously. “Haven’t I told you a dozen times that I don’t know why--that I haven’t the least idea why?” “He does seem an eccentric boy.” “Eccentric? I feel as if I had allowed myself to be saddled with the guardianship of a dancing dervish. And when I think that if this young idiot gets into any sort of trouble while he is under my charge, Pynsent is sure to hold me responsible. I could kick myself for ever having been fool enough to bring him over here.” “You mustn’t blame yourself, Georgie.” “It isn’t a question of blaming myself. It’s a question of Pynsent blaming me and getting annoyed and breaking off the deal about the island.” And Lord Tilbury, having removed his thumbs from the armholes of his waistcoat in order the more freely to fling them heavenwards, uttered a complicated sound which might be rendered phonetically by the word “Cor!” tenser and more dignified than the “Coo!” of the lower-class Londoner, but expressing much the same meaning. In the hushed silence which followed, the buzzer on the desk sounded. “Yes? Eh? Oh, send him up.” Lord Tilbury laid down the instrument and turned to his sister grimly. “Shotter is downstairs,” he said. “Now you will be able to see him for yourself.” Mrs. Hammond’s first impression when she saw Sam for herself was that she had been abruptly confronted with something in between a cyclone and a large Newfoundland puppy dressed in bright tweeds. Sam’s mood of elation had grown steadily all the way down Fleet Street, and he burst into the presence of his future employer as if he had just been let off a chain. “Well, how are you?” he cried, seizing Lord Tilbury’s hand in a grip that drew from him a sharp yelp of protest. Then, perceiving for the first time the presence of a fair stranger, he moderated his exuberance somewhat and stared politely. “My sister, Mrs. Hammond,” said Lord Tilbury, straightening his fingers. Sam bowed. Mrs. Hammond bowed. “Perhaps I had better leave you,” said Mrs. Hammond. “You will want to talk.” “Oh, don’t go,” said Sam hospitably.