n the
Lieutenant-Governor voiced the other's name, hardly above a whisper.

"Spencer Cavendish!"

And the other, echoing the tone, if not the words, replied:--

"Bar-clay!"

A square away, the lights of a hansom winked into the avenue, and the
hoof-beats of the horse clonked on the pavement, unaccompanied by any
sound from the smoothly trundling, rubber-tired wheels. Barclay stepped
to the kerb, and hailed the driver with his stick. The cab drew in,
stopped, and threw the divisions of its apron wide, like two black hands
extended in cordial welcome.

The Lieutenant-Governor turned to his companion.

"Get in," he said. "I want to have a talk with you."

The drive of a mile and more from Bradbury Avenue to Barclay's quarters
in the new bachelor apartment-house "Rockingham" was accomplished
without the exchange of a word. Once, he felt his companion shiver, and
dragging a rug from under them, he spread it across their knees. That
was the only movement on the part of either. They sat, side by side,
looking straight before them over the horse's bobbing crupper, until the
hansom pulled up sharply before the broad and brilliantly illuminated
entrance of the "Rockingham." As they passed in, Cavendish had a passing
impression of tiled floors, columns of green marble, and attendants in
tightly fitting green uniforms with brass buttons. Then an elevator
whirled them up to the eighth floor, deposited them in a square hallway,
and vanished again, with the little page in charge wrinkling his nose
and biting the thumb of his cotton glove.

"Wot's the Loot'nt-Guvnor up to now, Sawed-Off?" inquired the doorkeeper
genially, as the elevator returned to the ground floor.

"Ide'no!" replied the little page with equal affability. "Goin' in fer
pol'tics, I guest. Jeest! Wot a slob it wuz--wot?"

The Lieutenant-Governor unlocked the door of his apartment, touched an
electric button which flooded the little hall and the drawing-room
beyond with light, and, entering the latter, went directly to a closet
in the wall. Unlocking this, he took out a jar of biscuits and a
decanter, and setting them upon the table, turned once more to his
companion.

"Put away a couple of those biscuits and a glass of sherry," he said,
"and then we'll talk."

"I'm past biscuits," said the other, almost sullenly.

"I'll see to that," replied Barclay. "They are only by way of a
starter."

He passed into the hall as he spoke, and presently Cavendish hea