d of
"auxiliary screw" to aid the gale of Fortune. It was pretty much in this
spirit that Tony Butler arrived in London; nor did the aspect of that
mighty sea of humanity serve to increase his sense of self-reliance. It
was not merely his loneliness that he felt in that great crowd, but it
was his utter inutility--his actual worthlessness--to all others. If
the gamester's sentiment, to try his luck, was in his heart, it was
the spirit of a very poor gambler, who had but one "throw" to risk on
fortune; and, thus thinking, he set out for Downing Street.

If he was somewhat disappointed in the tumble-down, ruinous old mass of
building which held the state secrets of the empire, he was not the less
awestruck as he found himself at the threshold where the great men who
guide empires were accustomed to pass in. With a bold effort he swung
back the glass door of the inner hall, and found himself in presence of
a very well-whiskered, imposing-looking man, who, seated indolently in a
deep armchair, was busily engaged in reading the "Times." A glance over
the top of the paper was sufficient to assure this great official
that it was not necessary to interrupt his perusal of the news on the
stranger's account, and so he read on undisturbed.

"I have a letter here for Sir Harry Elphinstone," began Tony; "can I
deliver it to him?"

"You can leave it in that rack yonder," said the other, pointing to a
glass-case attached to the wall.

"But I wish to give it myself,--with my own hand."

"Sir Harry comes down to the office at five, and, if your name is down
for an audience, will see you after six."

"And if it is not down?"

"He won't see you; that 's all." There was an impatience about the last
words that implied he had lost his place in the newspaper, and wished to
be rid of his interrogator.

"And if I leave my letter here, when shall I call for the answer?" asked
Tony, diffidently.

"Any time from this to this day six weeks," said the other, with a wave
of the hand to imply the audience was ended.

"What if I were to try his private residence?" said Tony.

"Eighty-one, Park Lane," said the other, aloud, while he mumbled over
to himself the last line he had read, to recall his thoughts to the
passage.

"You advise me then to go there?"

"Always cutting down, always slicing off something!" muttered the other,
with his eyes on the paper. "'For the port-collector of Hallihololulo,
three hundred and twenty pounds. Mr. Sc