The door opened on a short, wide passage; on one side stood the study, on the other the bed, bath, and dressing-rooms. With a blind sense of knowledge and unfamiliarity, bred of much description on Chilcote's part, he put his hand on the study door and, still exalted by the omen of his first success, turned the handle. Inside the room there was firelight and lamplight and a studious air of peace. The realization of this and a slow incredulity at Chilcote's voluntary renunciation were his first impressions; then his attention was needed for more imminent things. As he entered, the new secretary was returning a volume to its place on the book-shelves. At sight of him, he pushed it hastily into position and turned round. “I was making a few notes on the political position of Khorasan,” he said, glancing with slight apprehensiveness at the other's face. He was a small, shy man, with few social attainments but an extraordinary amount of learning--the antithesis of the alert Blessington, whom he had replaced. Loder bore his scrutiny without flinching. Indeed, it struck him suddenly that there was a fund of interest, almost of excitement, in the encountering of each new pair of eyes. At the thought he moved forward to the desk. “Thank you, Greening,” he said. “A very useful bit of work.” The secretary glanced up, slightly puzzled. His endurance had been severely taxed in the fourteen days that he had filled his new post. “I'm glad you think so, sir,” he said, hesitatingly. “You rather pooh-poohed the matter this morning, if you remember.” Loder was taking off his coat, but stopped in the operation. “This morning?” he said. “Oh, did I? Did I?” Then, struck by the opportunity the words gave him, he turned towards the secretary. “You've got to get used to me, Greening,” he said. “You haven't quite grasped me yet, I can see. I'm a man of moods, you know. Up to the present you've seen my slack side, my jarred side, but I have quite another when I care to show it. I'm a sort of Jekyll-and-Hyde affair.” Again he laughed, and Greening echoed the sound diffidently. Chilcote had evidently discouraged familiarity. Loder eyed him with abrupt understanding. He recognized the loneliness in the anxious, conciliatory manner. “You're tired,” he said, kindly. “Go to bed. I've got some thinking to do. Good-night.” He held out his hand. Greening took it, still half distrustful of this fresh side to so complex a man. “Good-night, sir,” he said. “To-morrow, if you approve, I shall go on with my notes. I hope you will have a restful night.” For a second Loder's eyebrows went up, but he recovered himself instantly. “Ah, thanks, Greening,” he said. “Thanks. I think your hope will be fulfilled.” He watched the little secretary move softly and apologetically to the door; then he walked to the fire, and, resting his elbows on the mantel-piece, he took his face in his hands.