Here he stopped short, because to his unspeakable dismay he saw standing in the doorway none other than his own son, Algernon, and Algernon’s face was not good to look at, being filled with shame, amazement, and bewilderment--with shame because he understood, all in a moment, that his father’s life had been one long lie, and that by this way, and none other, the family income had been earned. Had not his friend on the way told him that the man Crediton was known in certain circles as the provider of good after-dinner speeches for those who could afford to pay for them?--how it was whispered that the rare and occasional evenings on which the speeches were crisp and fiery and witty and moving all through were those for which Crediton had supplied the whole?--and how for his own speech, about which he had been most shamefully treated, he had paid twenty guineas? So that he understood without more words, and looked on open-mouthed, having for the moment no power of speech or utterance. The father first recovered. He went on as if his son was not present. “Who are you, sir, I say, who come to my quiet office with this blackguard noise? If you don’t tell me on the spot, I will take you by the scruff of your miserable little neck and drop you over the banisters.” “I--I--I wrote to you for a speech.” “What speech? What name? What for?” His client, whose eyes at first were blinded by excess of wrath, now perceived to his amazement that Mr. Crediton was none other than his friend’s father, whom, indeed, he had met at the family mansion in Pembridge Crescent. “Good Lord!” he cried, “it’s--it’s Mr. Campaigne!”--he glanced from father to son, and back again--“Mr. Campaigne!” “And why not, sir--why not? Answer me that.” Again the ruler descended with a sickening resonance. “Oh, I don’t know why not. How should I know?” the intruder stammered. “It’s no concern of mine, I’m sure.” “Then come to the point. What speech? What name? What for?” “The Company of Cartmakers. The speech that you sent me--it arrived by post.” “A very good speech, too. I did send it. Much too good for you or for the fee you paid. I remember it. What is the matter with it? How dare you complain of it!” “The matter, sir--the matter,” he stammered, feeling much inclined to sit down and cry, “is that you sent the same speech to the proposer. Mine was the reply. The same speech--do you hear?--the same speech to the proposer as to me, who had to reply. Now, sir, do you realise---- Oh, I am not afraid of your ruler, I say;” but his looks belied his words. “Do you understand the enormity of your conduct?” “Impossible! How could I do such a thing--I who have never made a mistake before in all my professional career?” He looked hard at his son, and repeated the words “professional career.” “Are you sure of what you say?” He laid down his ruler with a very serious air. “Are you quite sure?”