THE breakfast room of Lord Stranleigh’s town house was a most cheerful apartment, and the young man who entered sat down to a repast which was at once abundant and choice. The appointments could scarcely have been bettered; the spotless linen, the polished silver, the prismatic cut glass, and the dainty porcelain, formed a pleasant table picture, enhanced by the pile of luscious fruit, the little rolls of cool, golden butter, the crisp white crescents, the brown toast, while the aroma of celestial coffee from the silver urn over a small electric furnace was enough to spur the longing of a sybarite. It is perhaps to be regretted that truth compels record of the fact that the languid person who found himself confronted by delicacies in season and out was healthily hungry, for some of us grumble that to him that hath shall be given, which seems unfair, and there appears to be a human satisfaction in the fact that John D. Rockefeller, the richest man in the world, is compelled to breakfast on a diluted glass of milk. But regrettable or no, Lord Stranleigh of Wychwood was preparing to do full justice to the excellence of the meal when his man said to him, in a hushed, deferential whisper: “Mr. Peter Mackeller has called, my lord, and insists on seeing you immediately. He says it is a matter of the utmost importance.” “Oh, dim!” ejaculated his lordship, “how these conscientious, earnest people tire me. As if anything could be a matter of importance at this hour except breakfast! Well, I suppose there is no escape: show him in.” He heaved a deep sigh, and murmured to himself: “This is what comes of meddling with the city.” The stalwart young Mackeller entered, and his very presence seemed to put the refined room to shame, his grim force causing his surroundings to appear _dilettante_ and needlessly expensive. He was even more than usually unkempt, as if he had been sitting up all night in the hold of the tramp steamer which had kidnapped him. A deep frown marked his brow, and heightened the expression of rude strength that radiated from his determined face. “Ah, Mackeller, good morning,” drawled his lordship, looking at the young man over his shoulder. “I’m delighted to see you, and just in the nick of time, too. Won’t you sit down and breakfast with me!” “Thank you,” said Mackeller, in tones as hard as the other’s were affected. “I breakfasted two hours and a half ago.” “Did you really? Well, call it lunch, and draw up your chair.” “No, I’ve not come to a banquet, but to a business conference.” “I’m sorry for that. My head is not very clear on business matters at any hour of the day, but in the morning I am particularly stupid. Do try a peach; you’ll find them exceedingly good.” “No, thanks.” “Then have a cigarette?” His lordship raised the heavy lid of a richly chased box of silver, displaying a quantity of the paper tubes, and pushed this toward his visitor.