ypher, ironically.

Shuttleworth smiled, guessing that the remark was humorous.

"Well," he said, "that's as you please. But the name and title naturally
are the essence of the matter."

"I see," said Sypher. "'Clem Sypher, Friend of Humanity,' is the essence of
the matter."

"With the secret recipe, of course."

"Of course," said Sypher, absently. He paced the room once or twice, then
halted in front of Shuttleworth, looked at him fixedly for a second or two
out of his clear eyes and resumed his walk; which was disconcerting for
Shuttleworth, who wiped his spectacles.

"Do you think we might now go into some details with regard to terms?"

"No," said Sypher, stopping short of the fireplace, "I don't. I've got to
agree to the principle first."

"But, surely, there's no difficulty about that!" cried Shuttleworth, rising
in consternation. "I can see no earthly reason--"

"I don't suppose you can," said Sypher. "When do you want an answer?"

"As soon as possible."

"Come to me in an hour's time and I'll give it you."

Shuttleworth retired. Sypher sat at his desk, his chin in his hand, and
struggled with his soul, which, as all the world knows, is the most
uncomfortable thing a man has to harbor in his bosom. After a few minutes
he rang up a number on the telephone.

"Are you the Shaftesbury Club? Is Mr. Septimus Dix in?"

He knew that Septimus was staying at the club, as he had come to town to
meet Emmy, who had arrived the evening before from Paris.

Mr. Dix was in. He was just finishing breakfast, and would come to the
telephone. Sypher waited, with his ear to the receiver.

"Is that you, Septimus? It's Clem Sypher speaking. I want you to come to
Moorgate Street at once. It's a matter of immediate urgency. Get into a
hansom and tell the man to drive like the devil. Thanks."

He resumed his position and sat motionless until, about half an hour
later, Septimus, very much scared, was shown into the room.

"I felt sure you were in. I felt sure you would come. There's a destiny
about all this business, and I seem to have a peep into it. I am going to
make myself the damnedest fool of all created beings--the very damnedest."

Septimus murmured that he was sorry to hear it.

"I hoped you might be glad," said Sypher.

"It depends upon the kind of fool you're going to make of yourself," cried
Septimus, a ray of wonderful lucidity flashing across his mind. "There's a
couplet of Tennyson's--I don't read poet