m to himself.

The next day, he was compelled to go to New York to attend to some
matters of business. Before taking the train, he laid his complaint of
being stopped on the road before the chief of police, who promised to
make vigorous inquisition. Farnham remained several days in New York,
and on his return, one warm, bright evening, he found his table
prepared and the grave Budsey waiting behind his chair.

He ate his dinner hastily and in silence, with no great zest. "You have
not forgot, sir," said Budsey, who was his external conscience in
social matters, "that you are going this evening to Mrs. Temple's?"

"I think I shall not go."

"Mr. Temple was here this afternoon, sir, which he said it was most
particular. I asked him would he call again. He said no, he was sure of
seeing you to-night. But it was most particular, he said."

Budsey spoke in the tone of solemn and respectful tyranny which he
always assumed when reminding Farnham of his social duties, and which
conveyed a sort of impression to his master that, if he did not do what
was befitting, his butler was quite capable of picking him up and
deferentially carrying him to the scene of festivity, and depositing
him on the door-step.

"What could Temple want to see me about 'most particular'?" Farnham
asked himself. "After all, I may as well pass the evening there as
anywhere."

Mr. Temple was one of the leading citizens of Buffland. He was the
vice-president of the great rolling-mill company, whose smoke darkened
the air by day and lighted up the skies at night as with the flames of
the nether pit. He was very tall and very slender, with reddish-brown
hair, eyes and mustache. Though a man of middle age, his trim figure,
his fashionable dress, and his clean shaven cheek and chin gave him an
appearance of youth. He was president of the local jockey club, and the
joy of his life was to take his place in the judges' stand, and sway
the destinies of the lean, keen-faced trainers who drove the trotting
horses. He had the eye of a lynx for the detection of any crookedness
in driving, and his voice would ring out over the track like the trump
of doom, conveying fines and penalties to the luckless trickster who
was trying to get some unfair advantage in the start. His voice, a deep
basso, rarely was heard, in fact, anywhere else. Though excessively
social, he was also extremely silent. He gave delightful dinner-parties
and a great many of them, but rarely spo