ed admiration
at the closed door of Mr. Jarvis's establishment. He whistled again,
softly, and then began to run--for the formidable Mr. Jarvis suddenly
opened the door. "Hi, boy!" he called to the page. The page hesitated,
glancing back doubtfully. "Tell his excellency that I will send round in
about half an hour to remeasure his foot."

"D'you mean it?" inquired the boy, impudently--"or is there a catch in
it?"

"I'll tan your hide, my lad!" cried the bootmaker--"and I mean that!
Take my message and keep your mouth shut."

The boy departed, grinning, and little more than half an hour later a
respectable-looking man presented himself at Savoy Court, inquiring of
the attendant near the elevator for the apartments of "his excellency,"
followed by an unintelligible word which presumably represented "Ormuz
Khan." The visitor wore a well-brushed but threadbare tweed suit,
although his soft collar was by no means clean. He had a short,
reddish-brown beard, and very thick, curling hair of the same hue
protruded from beneath a bowler hat which had seen long service.

Like Mr. Jarvis, he was bespectacled, and his teeth were much
discoloured and apparently broken in front, as is usual with cobblers.
His hands, too, were toil-stained and his nails very black. He carried
a cardboard box. He seemed to be extremely nervous, and this nervousness
palpably increased when the impudent page, who was standing in the
lobby, giggled on hearing his inquiry.

"He's second floor," said the youth. "Are you from Hot-Stuff Jarvis?"

"That's right, lad," replied the visitor, speaking with a marked
Manchester accent; "from Mr. Jarvis."

"And are you really going up?" inquired the boy with mock solicitude.

"I'm going up right enough. That's what I'm here for."

"Shut up, Chivers," snapped the hall porter. "Ring the bell." He glanced
at the cobbler. "Second floor," he said, tersely, and resumed his study
of a newspaper which he had been reading.

The representative of Mr. Jarvis was carried up to the second floor and
the lift man, having indicated at which door he should knock, descended
again. The cobbler's nervousness thereupon became more marked than ever,
so that a waiter, seeing him looking helplessly from door to door, took
pity on him and inquired for whom he was searching.

"His excellency," was the reply; "but I'm hanged if I can remember the
number or how to pronounce his name."

The waiter glanced at him oddly. "Ormuz Khan,"