’You shall finish your supper before I let you stir.  After that you may do what you like.  I was always a child in your hands, Jack, whether it was climbing a mountain or crossing the Horse-shoe Fall.  I consider the business in your hands now.  I’ll go with you wherever you like, and do what you tell me.  When you want me to kick anybody, or fight anybody, you can give me the office and I’ll do it.  I know that Lesbia’s interests are safe in your hands.  You once cared very much for her.  You are her brother-in-law now, and, next to me, you are her natural protector, taking into account that her future husband is a cad and doesn’t score.’

’Meet me at Waterloo at ten minutes to seven to-morrow morning, and we’ll go down to Cowes together.  I’m off to find Fitzpatrick.  Good night.’

So they parted.  Lord Hartfield walked across the Park to Great George Street, where Mr. Fitzpatrick had chambers of a semi-official character, on the first floor of a solemn-looking old house, spacious, gloomy without and within, walls sombre with the subdued colouring of decorations half a century old.

The lighted windows of those first-floor rooms told Lord Hartfield that he was not too late.  He rang the bell, which was answered with the briefest delay by a sleepy-looking clerk, who had been taking shorthand notes for Mr. Fitzpatrick’s great book upon ’Protection versus Free Trade.’  The clerk looked sleepy, but his employer had as brisk an air as if he were just beginning the day; although he had been working without intermission since nine o’clock that evening, and had done a long day’s work before dinner.  He was walking up and down the spacious unluxurious room, half office, half library, smoking a cigar.  Upon a large table in the centre of the room stood two powerful reading lamps with green shades, illuminating a chaotic mass of books and pamphlets, heaped and scattered all over the table, save just on that spot between the two lamps, which accommodated Mr. Fitzpatrick’s blotting pad and inkpot, a pewter inkpot which held about a pint.

‘How d’ye do, Hartfield?  Glad you’ve looked me up at last,’ said the Irishman, as if a midnight call were the most natural thing in the world.  ‘Just come from the House?’

’No; I’ve just come from Westmoreland.  I thought I should find you among those everlasting books of yours, late as it is.  Can I have a few words alone with you?’

‘Certainly.  Morgan, you can go away for a bit.’

‘Home, sir?’

’Home—­well—­yes, I suppose it’s late.  You look sleepy.  I should have been glad to finish the chapter on Beetroot Sugar to-night—­but it may stand over for the morning.  Be sure you’re early.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the clerk responded with a faint sigh.

He was paid handsomely for late hours, liberally rewarded for his shorthand services; and yet he wished the great Fitzpatrick had not been quite so industrious.