Mr. James Hornett softly closed the door, and stood on the landing with long lean fingers scraping at his lantern jaws. He was a little man, short of stature, and sparely built. His skin was vealy in complexion, and he had wiry hair of a russet-red. Even when he was clean shaven his fingers rasped upon his hollow cheeks with a faint sound. His nose and chin were long and pointed, and his manner was meek and self-effacing even when he was alone. There was a tinge of wonder in his face, at war with an habitual smile, in which his eyes had no part. ‘Something wrong?’ he said, under his breath. He went creeping softly down the stairs. ‘Something wrong? Mr. Bommaney in tears? Mr. Bommaney!’ Could anything have happened to Mr. Phil? That was the only thing Mr. Hornett could think of as being likely to affect his employer in that way. Now Mr. Hornett had been in his present employ for thirty years, man and boy, and he was human. Therefore, when at the expiration of a little more than five minutes’ time Mr. Bommaney’s bell rang, he himself ushered the visitor upstairs, and in place of retiring to his own pew below stairs, lingered in a desert little apartment rarely used, and then stole out upon the landing and listened. He was the more prompted to this because the visitor, who had a bucolic hearty aspect, and was very talkative, had told him downstairs that Mr. Bommaney and himself were old friends and schoolfellows, and had been in each other’s confidence for years. ‘I am afraid, sir,’ Mr. Hornett had said, when the visitor first presented himself, ‘that Mr. Bommaney may not be able to see you at present. He gave orders not to be disturbed.’ ‘Not see me?’ said the visitor with a laugh. ‘I’ll engage he will.’ And then followed the statement about his old acquaintanceship with Mr. Hornett’s employer. If there were anything to be told at all, it seemed not unlikely that this visitor might be the recipient of the intelligence, and Mr. Hornett lingered to find if haply he might overhear. He heard nothing that enlightened him as to the reasons for his employer’s disturbance, but heard most that passed between the two. Bommaney had succeeded in composing himself and in washing away the traces of his tears. Then he had taken a stiffish dose of brandy and water, and was something like his own man again. He received his visitor cordially, and in his anxiety not to seem low-spirited was a little more boisterous than common. ‘I’m busy, you see,’ he said, waving a hand at the papers scattered on the desk, and keeping up the farce of prosperous merchandise to the last, ‘but I can spare _you_ a minute or two, old man. What brings you up to town?’