It is an article of belief that every Englishman's private residence must include an apartment which, by a polite fiction, is denominated a study. This apartment, which generally smells of musty bones, is, as a rule, extremely small, extremely dark, and extremely useless. Dust lies thick upon the shabby furniture, by reason of the housemaid never being allowed to enter it with duster and broom; and the few volumes on the shelves of the parody of a bookcase lean against each other at a drunken angle, with a dissipated air of books that have lost all respect for themselves. To add to the conspicuous cheerlessness of the room, its one insufficient window looks out upon a dreary back wall, a constant contemplation of which would be likely to drive a man's thoughts in the direction of suicide. Provided with the necessary cupboard, no more suitable hiding-place could be found for the proverbial family skeleton, without which no well-regulated establishment can be said to be complete. Into such an apartment was John Dixon shown when he was informed that Mr. Fox-Cordery would receive him. This cold welcome was a sufficient indication that the master of the house did not regard his visitor in the light of a friend; but, clear as was the fact to John Dixon, it did not disturb him. With his rubicund face, his bright eyes, and his genial manners, he presented the appearance of a man not easily disturbed, of a man who accepted the rubs of life with equanimity, and made the best of them. He was in his prime, a well-built gentleman, with nothing particularly serious on his conscience, and when Mr. Fox-Cordery entered the room the advantage was on John Dixon's side, physically and morally. They glanced at each other inquiringly, and with a certain curiosity, for it was long since they had met face to face. Mr. Fox-Cordery was disappointed; he had hoped to see signs of wear and tear in his old friend, in the shape of crows'-feet, wrinkles, and gray hairs, but none were visible. On the contrary, there was an assertion of robust youth and good health about John Dixon which gave positive pain to Mr. Fox-Cordery. "Good-day, Fox," said John Dixon cordially. Mr. Fox-Cordery did not respond to the salutation. Stiffening his little body--an action which brought a broad smile to John Dixon's lips--he said in his iciest tone: "To what may I ascribe the----" "The honor of this visit," broke in John Dixon heartily. "I'll come to it soon. You don't seem comfortable, Fox." "Whether I am comfortable or not," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, who would have administered a dose of poison to his visitor with the greatest pleasure in life, "cannot possibly concern or interest you."