"You are an ugly brute," muttered Sir Robert, contemplating this effigy,
"but although I believe in nothing in heaven above or earth below,
except the abysmal folly of the British public, I am bothered if I don't
believe in you. At any rate from the day when Vernon brought you into
my office, my luck turned, and to judge from the smile on your sweet
countenance, I don't think it is done with yet. I wonder what those
stones are in your eyes. Opals, I suppose, from the way they change
colour. They shine uncommonly to-day, I never remember them so bright.
I----"

At this moment a knock came on the door. Sir Robert turned off the lamp
and walked back to the fireplace.

"Come in," he said, and as he spoke once more his pale face grew
impassive and expressionless.

The door opened and a clerk entered, an imposing-looking clerk with
iron-grey hair, who wore an irreproachable frock coat and patent leather
boots. Advancing to his master, he stood respectfully silent, waiting to
be addressed. For quite a long while Sir Robert looked over his head as
though he did not see him; it was a way of his. Then his eyes rested on
the man dreamily and he remarked in his cold, clear voice:

"I don't think I rang, Jeffreys."

"No, Sir Robert," answered the clerk, bowing as though he spoke to
Royalty, "but there is a little matter about that article in _The
Cynic_."

"Press business," said Sir Robert, lifting his eyebrows; "you should