“Webster,” he said, “this morning we had an unfortunate misunderstanding. I’m sorry.” “Pray don’t mention it, sir.” “I was to blame. Webster, you have been a faithful servant! You have stuck to me, Webster, through thick and thin!” said Mr. Bennett, who had half persuaded himself by this time that the other had been in the family for years instead of having been engaged at a registry-office a little less than a month ago. “Through thick and thin!” repeated Mr. Bennett. “I have endeavoured to give satisfaction, sir.” “I want to reward you, Webster.” “Thank you very much, sir.” “Take my trousers!” Webster raised a deprecating hand. “No, no, sir, thanking you exceedingly, I couldn’t really! You will need them, sir, and I assure you I have an ample supply.” “Take my trousers,” repeated Mr. Bennett, “and feel in the right-hand pocket. There is some money there.” “I’m sure I’m very much obliged, sir,” said Webster, beginning for the first time to feel that there was a bright side. He embarked upon the treasure-hunt. “The sum is sixteen pounds eleven shillings and threepence, sir.” “Keep it!” “Thank you very much, sir. Would there be anything further, sir?” “Why, no,” said Mr. Bennett, feeling dissatisfied nevertheless. There had been a lack of the deepest kind of emotion in the interview, and his yearning soul resented it. “Why, no.” “Good-night, sir.” “Stop a moment. Which is Mr. Mortimer’s room?” “Mr. Mortimer, senior, sir? It is at the further end of this passage, on the left facing the main staircase. Good-night, sir. I am extremely obliged. I will bring you your shaving-water when you ring.” Mr. Bennett, left alone, mused for awhile, then, rising from his bed, put on his dressing-gown, took his candle, and went down the passage. In a less softened mood, the first thing Mr. Bennett would have done on crossing the threshold of the door facing the staircase would have been to notice resentfully that Mr. Mortimer, with his usual astuteness, had collared the best bedroom in the house. The soft carpet gave out no sound as Mr. Bennett approached the wide and luxurious bed. The light of the candle fell on the back of a semi-bald head. Mr. Mortimer was sleeping with his face buried in the pillow. It cannot have been good for him, but that was what he was doing. From the portion of the pillow in which his face was buried strange gurgles proceeded, like the distant rumble of an approaching train on the Underground. “Mortimer,” said Mr. Bennett. The train stopped at a station to pick up passengers, and rumbled on again. “Henry!” said Mr. Bennett, and nudged his sleeping friend in the small of the back. “Leave it on the mat,” mumbled Mr. Mortimer, stirring slightly and uncovering one corner of his mouth.