"All right," replied Vellacott, putting on the coat he had been carrying
over his arm. A peculiar smooth rapidity characterised all his
movements. At school he had been considered a very "clean" fielder. The
cleanness was there still.

The preternaturally sharp boy--sharp as only London boys are--watched
the lithe form vanish up the stairs; then he wagged his head very wisely
and said to himself in a patronising way:

"He's the right sort, he is--no chalk there!"

Subsequently he balanced his diminutive person full length upon the
balustrade, and proceeded to haul himself laboriously, hand over hand,
to the top.

In the meantime Christian Vellacott had passed into the editor's room.
The light of the lamp was driven downwards upon the table, but the
reflection of it rose and illuminated his face. It was a fairly handsome
face, with eyes just large enough to be keen and quick without being
dreamy. The slight fair moustache was not enough to hide the mouth,
which was refined, and singularly immobile. He glanced at Mr. Bodery, as
he entered, quickly and comprehensively, and then turned his eyes
towards Mr. Morgan. His face was very still and unemotional, but it was
pale, and his eyes were deeply sunken. A keen observer would have
noticed, in comparing the three men, that there was something about the
youngest which was lacking in his elders. It lay in the direct gaze of
his eyes, in the carriage of his head, in the small, motionless mouth.
It was what is vaguely called "power."

"Sit down, Vellacott," said Mr. Brodery. "We want to have a