Another minute or two elapsed. "Yes, I'm here," said the Professor suddenly, turning again to the instrument. "Thanks." A pause. "What--what's that?" Another and longer pause. "Oh, thanks very much. Yes, that's all. I shall probably see you Wednesday. I hope to look in about that Stevenson case. Yes. Good-bye." He hung up the receiver. "Well, Mr. Bates," said he, approaching the table, "it appears that you have spoken the truth." Mr. Bates gulped down his last mouthful. "Yes, sir," he said. The Professor eyed him for a moment severely. "It is, of course, my duty," he said, "to hand you over to the law." "Yes, sir." "But, being opposed to carrying duty to too logical an extreme, I am prepared to make you an alternative offer. If you would care to take the place of the professionally defunct Mr. Andrew, I am willing to give you a trial. Your work would be to devote the same care and skill to my comfort that you doubtless bestowed upon the late Mr. Houghton. Your wages will be fifty pounds a year, and I shall give you a fortnight's holiday." For a naturally reserved and properly trained servant, Mr. Bates's response was unpardonable. Rising to his feet, he staggered round the table, and falling on his knees in front of the Professor, began feebly groping for the latter's hand. He was sobbing so loudly that it was difficult to hear what he said. It sounded like: "Thank you--oh, thank you, sir! God bless you, sir!" For the third time the Professor raised his eyebrows. "Really, Bates," he said, "a little more self-control, if you please. You must remember that you are a valet now, not a burglar." A Bit of Old Chelsea We were strolling through the restful streets of Chelsea when we came suddenly upon a picturesque little tavern close to the Thames. It was half covered with ivy, and from the wooden balcony above, long trailing geraniums hung down and mingled with the dark green leaves. There was a weather-beaten signboard with a picture of a cunning-looking man in a cocked hat. It was called the "Lord Nelson." "That's a quaint old place," said George carelessly. "Very," I replied; "so picturesque." "I wonder what it's like inside. Shall we have a look?" "Certainly," I said. I always try to fall in with my friend's wishes, even when I don't approve of them. I may be wrong, but that is my idea of friendship. George is a journalist with a strange craving for the interiors of taverns. He says they are such excellent places in which to study character. From the outsider's point of view studying character seems to be the chief part of journalism, and I should think few men worked harder at it than George does.