J. Driver shook his head, tore up the packet, and put it into the fire. "Better there," he said oracularly. "Now, Toft, my boy, don't worry. You'll have that key back by Friday, and all your spoons'll be in the box. If you don't interfere you'll never hear of me again, and the Admiralty won't either; but if you take one step behind my back I'll do all I've threatened, and a lot more, and you'll be building Portland Breakwater on Christmas Day. By-bye, Septimus." With this Mr. Driver rose, and stalked out of the room. After a modest interval Mr. Toft followed. At 9 a.m. on the following morning the bell of the Fellmongers' Company pealed vigorously. The porter hurried to answer it, and found a lady on the doorstep. She was neatly dressed, and was strikingly handsome. She might be twenty-five years old. A boy carrying a portfolio and a strapped-up easel stood behind. "Is this the Fellmongers' Hall?" she asked. "It is, Miss." "I want to know if you will be good enough to allow me to copy a painting you have on your walls? I do not know if it is necessary to have any written permission, or where to apply for it." "The 'All is open to the public under my supervision," said the porter pompously. "Come inside, please." "Thank you," replied the lady. "Put those things down, Johnnie. That's right. I'll let you know when to come for them. Good-morning." "We don't often 'ave hartists 'ere, miss," remarked the porter, "and I sometimes thinks as pictures is wasted on gentlemen dinin' with City Companies. They ain't runnin' pertic'ler strong on hart just then. Which one is it you want?" "I don't know the title," replied the artist, "but I shall know the picture when I see it. It's a portrait." "P'raps Nicholas Tiffany," the porter suggested, "the first warden of the company, painted by 'Olbein. Born 1455. Lived to the ripe age of ninety-four, and died regretted by his sovereign and his country. His estates were seized by his creditors. Here he is, miss." The man opened the door of the Livery Room, the walls of which were hung with many pictures. "This is Tiffany," he said, pointing to a disreputable-looking portrait. The lady looked at it doubtfully. "The painting I want is the one nearest to the door of the plate room," she said. "Then it's a good bit away from it, miss. The plate room is off the Banqueting 'All, and they are all windows on that side. The pictures are opposite." "Dear me," said the lady. "How very stupidly I have been informed. Please show me the room." The porter led the way, and threw open the door with pardonable pride. "The Banqueting 'All of the Honourable Company of Fellmongers!" he exclaimed. It was the famous hall in which heads of City Companies and ruling sovereigns are intermittently entertained. Down one wall were ranged portraits of eminent fellmongers. The other three were pierced by doors and windows. "Which is the plate room?" asked the lady.