hing else
to do. You'll find all the papers on my desk. Thanks awfully, old chap."

And Beevor hurried back to his own room, where for the next few minutes
he could be heard bustling Harrison, the clerk, to make haste; then a
hansom was whistled for, there were footsteps down the old stairs, the
sounds of a departing vehicle on the uneven stones, and after that
silence and solitude.

It was not in Nature to avoid feeling a little envious. Beevor had work
to do in the world: even if it chiefly consisted in profaning sylvan
retreats by smug or pretentious villas, it was still work which
entitled him to consideration and respect in the eyes of all
right-minded persons.

And nobody believed in Horace; as yet he had never known the
satisfaction of seeing the work of his brain realised in stone and brick
and mortar; no building stood anywhere to bear testimony to his
existence and capability long after he himself should have passed away.

It was not a profitable train of thought, and, to escape from it, he
went into Beevor's room and fetched the documents he had mentioned--at
least they would keep him occupied until it was time to go to his club
and lunch. He had no sooner settled down to his calculations, however,
when he heard a shuffling step on the landing, followed by a knock at
Beevor's office-door. "More work for Beevor," he thought; "what luck the
fellow has! I'd better go in and explain that he's just left town on
business."

But on entering the adjoining room he heard the knocking repeated--this
time at his own door; and hastening back to put an end to this somewhat
undignified form of hide-and-seek, he discovered that this visitor at
least was legitimately his, and was, in fact, no other than Professor
Anthony Futvoye himself.

The Professor was standing in the doorway peering short-sightedly
through his convex glasses, his head protruded from his loosely-fitting
great-coat with an irresistible suggestion of an inquiring tortoise. To
Horace his appearance was more welcome than that of the wealthiest
client--for why should Sylvia's father take the trouble to pay him this
visit unless he still wished to continue the acquaintanceship? It might
even be that he was the bearer of some message or invitation.

So, although to an impartial eye the Professor might not seem the kind
of elderly gentleman whose society would produce any wild degree of
exhilaration, Horace was unfeignedly delighted to see him.

"Extrem