At last there came a discreet knock at the door, and an elderly clean-shaven person with the manners of a retired butler appeared noiselessly upon the threshold.  He bowed slightly to us both.

“Lord Lammersfield wishes to see you, gentlemen.  If you will be good enough to follow me, I will conduct you to his presence.”

We followed him along the corridor and up a rather dingy staircase, when he tapped gently at a door immediately facing us.  “Come in,” called out a voice, and with another slight inclination of his head our guide turned the handle and ushered us into the room.

It was a solemn-looking sort of apartment furnished chiefly with bookcases, and having a general atmosphere of early Victorian stuffiness.  At a big table in the centre two men were sitting.  One was Latimer; the other I recognized immediately as Lord Lammersfield.

I had never known him personally in the old days, but I had often seen him walking in the Park, or run across him at such popular rest cures as Kempton and Sandown Park.  He had changed very little in the interval; his hair was perhaps a trifle greyer, otherwise he looked just the same debonair picturesque figure that the Opposition caricaturists had loved to flesh their pencils on.

He got up as we entered, regarding us both with a pleasant whimsical smile that put me entirely at my ease at once.

“This is Lyndon,” said Latimer, indicating me; “and this is Morrison.”

Lord Lammersfield came round the table and shook hands cordially with us both.

“Sit down, gentlemen,” he said, “sit down.  If half of what Mr. Latimer has told me is true, you must be extremely tired.”

We all three laughed, and Tommy promptly took advantage of the invitation to seat himself luxuriously in a big leather arm-chair.  I remained standing.

“To be quite truthful,” I said, “it’s been the most refreshing morning I can ever remember.”

Lord Lammersfield looked at me for a moment with the same smile on his lips.

“Yes,” he said drily; “I suppose there is a certain stimulus in saving England before breakfast.  Most of my own work in that line is accomplished in the afternoon.”  Then, with a sudden slight change in his manner, he took a step forward and again held out his hand.

“Mr. Lyndon,” he said, “as a member of the Government, and one who is therefore more or less responsible for the law’s asinine blunders, I am absolutely ashamed to look you in the face.  I wonder if you add generosity to your other unusual gifts.”

For the second time we exchanged grips.  “I have common gratitude at all events, Lord Lammersfield,” I said.  “I know that you have tried to help me while I was in prison, and—­”

He held up his other hand with a gesture of half-ironical protest.  “Ah!” he exclaimed, “I am afraid that any poor efforts of mine in that direction were due to the most flagrant compulsion.”  He paused.  “Whatever else you are unlucky in, Mr. Lyndon,” he added smilingly, “you can at least be congratulated on your friends.”