Part 17 (2/2)

”Look here, Gerald!” he said, taking the card and holding it out to his son in answer. ”Who do you suppose has come to see me? Look!”

Lord Hayle took up the card.

”By Jove!” he said. ”James Fabian Rose! Why, that's the great Socialist Johnny, isn't it, father? The man who writes plays and lectures, and is on the County Council and all that. I think we had him down at Oxford once, and I am not sure that we did not drive him out of the town.”

”That is the man,” the bishop answered; ”one of the most brilliant intellects and unscrupulous characters in London to-day. It is not too much to say, Gerald, that this man is a perfect danger and menace to society, and to our--our order.”

”Then what has he come to see you for, father?”

”Goodness only knows!” said the bishop. ”I certainly shall not see him.”

The butler was an old and privileged family servant. He had said nothing while this dialogue was in progress. Now he turned to his master.

”If you will allow me to say so, my lord,” he said, ”I think the gentleman should be seen. I don't think that it is an ordinary visit at all. It bears no indication of being an ordinary visit at all.”

The bishop snapped his fingers once or twice.

”Oh, well, Parker,” he said, ”show him in, show him in; but explain that I have only three minutes, and that I am very busy. Gerald, you might as well wait. It might be interesting for you to see this creature.”

In half a minute the butler opened the door and showed in the man with the face as white as linen, the mustard-coloured beard and moustache, and the keen lamp-like eyes.

Rose was dressed in his usual lounge suit, cut with about as much regard to convention as a ham sandwich. His tall figure bent forwards in eagerness, and he was certainly a disreputable note in this stronghold of aristocracy. Yet, nevertheless, his personality blazed out in the room as if some one had lit a Roman candle in the library.

The bishop rose, stately, portly, splendid.

”Mr. Rose,” he said, ”to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? I am rather pressed for time.”

”Something very important, indeed, my lord,” the Socialist answered, in quick, incisive accents. ”I should not have intruded upon you unless I had something most special to say.”

”I understand that, Mr. Rose,” the bishop replied, though the courteous smile with which he said it robbed his remark of something of its sting.

”You and I, Mr. Rose, represent two quite different points of view, do we not?”

”I suppose we do,” said the great Socialist, with a sudden vigour and amus.e.m.e.nt in his eyes; ”but that is not what I have come here for to-night. May I ask, my lord,” he said, looking towards Lord Camborne's son, ”may I ask if this is Lord Hayle?”

”That is my name, Mr. Rose,” the young man replied, rather startled at the sudden question.

”Oh, thank you,” Rose said. ”I have come here specially to see you to-night.”

There was a moment's pause.

”Your business, Mr. Rose?” said the bishop once more.

”Is this,” Rose rejoined. ”The Duke of Paddington has sent me with a very special message to his friend, Lord Hayle. If Lord Hayle was not in London, his grace asked me to see Lord Camborne.”

The bishop started violently. ”My dear Mr. Rose,” he said, in a deep voice, ”what is all this? What is all this? The Duke of Paddington! Do you mean to say----”

”The Duke of Paddington, my lord,” Rose answered, a subtle mockery becoming somewhat apparent in his voice, ”the Duke of Paddington has been discovered!”

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