"That's so," said Mr. Pilgrim, who long since had forgotten his unkind suspicions of his visitor's intentions. "I hope I haven't worried you too much, my lord. It isn't every day that I get the chance of interviewin' a future hereditary legislator. I promised last night to show you some historical curiosities. We'll just go an' rout out my secretary, Tullitt, who has the keepin' of 'em." They adjourned to the next room, and found Mr. Tullitt busy at his desk. He opened various cabinets and drawers for them. "This," said Mr. Pilgrim, "is the original warrant signed by Henry VIII., consignin' his sixth wife to the Tower of London for beheadin' purposes. He had it penned in Latin to frighten her more. The writ was never served, as Henry changed his mind, an' decided to keep her on the throne. "Here, sir, is my last purchase--thirty pages of 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' written by John Bunyan in Bedford Jail. I paid ten thousand dollars for that, an' I'd have paid twenty before missin' it. You see, my name is John Pilgrim, an' it seemed to me that I have a sort of claim on that book--a kind of relationship. Anyway, there's my two names on the title-page. "Moreover, I've got on so well since I started life in a Chicago stock-yard that 'Pilgrim's Progress' would best describe my record. If it wasn't irreverent, I'd have called the autobiography I'm writin' by the name of that book; but as I can't do so, I've bought the original manuscript. You'll handle it carefully; it's not in first-rate repair." Mr. Pilgrim showed his guest other historical treasures, and would have gone on indefinitely had not his daughter compassionately intervened. The rest of the evening was spent in conversation, and in listening to coon songs witchingly sung by Miss Pilgrim to her accompaniment on a harpsichord, once the property of Mrs. Thrale of Streatham, a friend of the immortal Dr. Johnson. "Good-night, my lord," said Mr. Pilgrim at eleven o'clock. "P'raps you'll be kind enough to look round in the mornin'. I shall make a few notes of the information you've given me, and my secretary will lick them into shape." "Right," said Lord Roker, with his eyes beyond Mr. Pilgrim, fixed on an enchanting vision of brown and gold, seated in the basket chair before the fire. On the following morning Lord Roker found Mr. Pilgrim's secretary before a typewriter which he seemed to be working against time. A pile of correspondence lay around him. He finished the sheet on which he was engaged, and then, with a sigh of relief, he turned to his visitor. "Mornin', my lord; I have this ready for you." He handed a type-written sheet to Lord Roker, who sat down and read: