“Very well,” said his mother, rising, “I will have it ready for you when you come to Surbiton after having seen Sartwell at Wimbledon. It is on your way, you know.” “All right, mater. But you mustn’t blame me if I don’t succeed. I’ll do my best, but Sartwell’s an awkward beggar to deal with.” “All I ask of you, Barnard, is that you shall do your best,” answered the lady, rising. CHAPTER V. When Mrs. Hope departed, Barney sat down on a luxurious divan in his studio, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I may as well have that cheque as soon as possible,” he said to himself. “It is no use delaying important matters; besides, delay might injure the scheme the mater has on her mind. What a blessing it is father asks me not to mention the cheques he gives me. Between the two you manage to rub along, Barney, my boy. Well, here goes for Wimbledon!” The young man arrayed himself with some care, jumped into a hansom, and was driven to Sloane Square station, where, in due time, a deliberate train came along that ultimately landed him in Wimbledon. If Barney had been a man of deep thought, or experienced in the ways of working people, or able to reason from induction, he would have arrived at the fact that there was not the slightest chance of finding Mr. Sartwell in his house at that hour of the day. It must not be supposed that Barney was an unthinking person, for, when the servant informed him that Mr. Sartwell was never at home except in the evening or early morning, Barney at once accused himself mentally of heedlessness in having to come all the way from Chelsea to Wimbledon to learn so self-evident a fact. He thus admitted to himself his own ability to have reasoned the matter out, had his mind been unobscured by the shadow of a coming cheque. He was not quick at grasping an unexpected detail, and he stood at the door hardly knowing exactly what to do next; while the servant watched him with obvious distrust, wondering whether he came to sell something or merely to ask for a subscription; however, the fact that he was keeping a hansom waiting at the gate told in his favour, so she broke the silence by saying: “Any message, sir?” He ignored this question, which raised him still higher in the servant’s estimation, and ventured the perfectly accurate opinion: “He will not be home for some hours, I suppose?” “No, sir.” Barney pondered for a while, and suddenly delivered himself of a resolution that did credit to his good sense. “Then I won’t wait,” he said. “What name shall I say, sir?” asked the maid. “Oh, it’s of no importance. I will call again; still, here is my card. I am the son of Mr. Hope, one of the proprietors of the works.” The maid took the card, and Mrs. Sartwell appeared in the hall, almost as if she had been listening to the words of the speaker, which, of course, she had a perfect right to do, as one generally wishes to know who calls at one’s front door. “Did I hear you say that you were Mr. Hope?” she asked.