Hutchinson had gone to Manchester, and there had been barely time for a brief but characteristic interview between him and Tembarom, when he rushed back to London. Tembarom felt rather excited when he remembered it, recalling what he had felt in confronting the struggles against emotion in the blunt-featured, red face, the breaks in the rough voice, the charging up and down the room like a curiously elated bull in a china shop, and the big effort to restrain relief and gratitude the degree of which might seem to under-value the merits of the invention itself. Once or twice when he looked serious, Tembarom was thinking this over, and also once or twice when he grinned. Relief and gratitude notwithstanding, Hutchinson had kept him in his place, and had not made unbounded efforts to conceal his sense of the incongruity of his position as the controller of fortunes and the lord of Temple Barholm, which was still vaguely flavored with indignation. When he had finished his last pipe, Tembarom rose and knocked the ashes out of it. “Now for Pearson,” he said. He had made up his mind to have a talk with Pearson, and there was no use wasting time. If things didn't suit you, the best thing was to see what you could do to fix them right away--if it wasn't against the law. He went out into the hall, and seeing the two footmen standing waiting, he spoke to them. “Say, I didn't know you fellows were there,” he said. “Are you waiting up for me? Well, you can go to bed, the sooner the quicker. Good night.” And he went up-stairs whistling. The glow and richness and ceremonial order of preparation in his bedroom struck him as soon as he opened the door. Everything which could possibly have been made ready for his most luxurious comfort had been made ready. He did not, it is true, care much for the huge bed with its carved oak canopy and massive pillars. “But the lying-down part looks about all right,” he said to himself. The fine linen, the soft pillows, the downy blankets, would have allured even a man who was not tired. The covering had been neatly turned back and the snowy whiteness opened. That was English, he supposed. They hadn't got on to that at Mrs. Bowse's. “But I guess a plain little old New York sleep will do,” he said. “Temple Barholm or no Temple Barholm, I guess they can't change that.” Then there sounded a quiet knock at the door. He knew who it would turn out to be, and he was not mistaken. Pearson stood in the corridor, wearing his slightly anxious expression, but ready for orders. Mr. Temple Barholm looked down at him with a friendly, if unusual, air. “Say, Pearson,” he announced, “if you've come to wash my face and put my hair up in crimping-pins, you needn't do it, because I'm not used to it. But come on in.”