“Now you know what an arrant old sceptic I am, nevertheless I believed every word of this very curious story, though it tends to drive a hole clean through all my scandalous and antediluvian materialism. “Now there are many more things in _your_ heaven and earth than in mine, so if I can believe it, you should have no difficulty in doing likewise. If you can, that act of faith will give you the finest servant in Europe, and a charming companion. His past has made it impossible for him to get a decent job, so I have been looking after him for the last two years. This seems a heaven-sent opportunity to do you and him a very good turn. At any rate see him. He is 46 and a bachelor. I hope you’re flourishing; I should like to pay you a visit in June some time, if you’d like to have me. “LEONARD. “P.S.--His address is 38, Mustard Row, Clapham.” Certainly Mr. Ponders missed Reynolds, his devoted companion for 25 years. To middle-aged bachelors with large Tudor houses, dwarfed social senses and a great appreciation of personal comfort, to perhaps a little bit selfish gentry of this sort, their butlers are, next to themselves, the most important people in the world. Mrs. Dupine did her best, Mr. Ponders conceded, but he had noted several little unpleasant omissions during the last three weeks. He had interviewed several highly recommended and rotund individuals since Reynolds’ death, but none of them had really appealed to him. But was there anything less appealing than to have always near one somebody who had been seriously suspected of having cut his master’s throat! for that was how Sir Roger had come to his end, as he remembered. Might not such an one, encouraged by the success of his first--if it were his first--butchery, proceed with careful and cunning planning to commit another!