“Everything is ready, Rollo?” St. George asked.  “No one has telephoned to beg off?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Rollo, “and no, sir.”

St. George had sometimes told himself that the man looked like an oval grey stone with a face cut upon it.

“Is the claret warmed?” St. George demanded, handing his hat.  “Did the big glasses come for the liqueur—­and the little ones will set inside without tipping?  Then take the cigars to the den—­you’ll have to get some cigarettes for Mr. Provin.  Keep up the fire.  Light the candles in ten minutes.  I say, how jolly the table looks.”

“Yes, sir,” returned Rollo, “an’ the candles ’ll make a great difference, sir.  Candles do give out an air, sir.”

One month of service had accustomed St. George to his valet’s gift of the Articulate Simplicity.  Rollo’s thoughts were doubtless contrived in the cuticle and knew no deeper operance; but he always uttered his impressions with, under his mask, an air of keen and seasoned personal observation.  In his first interview with St. George, Rollo had said:  “I always enjoy being kep’ busy, sir. To me, the busy man is a grand sight,” and St. George had at once appreciated his possibilities.  Rollo was like the fine print in an almanac.

When the candles were burning and the lights had been turned on in the little ochre den where the billiard-table stood, St. George emerged—­a well-made figure, his buoyant, clear-cut face accurately bespeaking both health and cleverness.  Of a family represented by the gentle old bishop and his own exquisite mother, himself university-bred and fresh from two years’ hard, hand-to-hand fighting to earn an honourable livelihood, St. George, of sound body and fine intelligence, had that temper of stability within vast range which goes pleasantly into the mind that meets it.  A symbol of this was his prodigious popularity with those who had been his fellow-workers—­a test beside which old-world traditions of the urban touchstones are of secondary advantage.  It was deeply significant that in spite of the gulf which Chance had digged the day-staff of the Sentinel, all save two or three of which were not of his estate, had with flattering alacrity obeyed his summons to dine.  But, as he heard in the hall the voice of Chillingworth, the difficulty of his task for the first time swept over him.  It was Chillingworth who had advocated to him the need of wooden type to suit his literary style and who had long ordered and bullied him about; and how was he to play the host to Chillingworth, not to speak of the others, with the news between them of that million?

When the bell rang, St. George somewhat gruffly superseded Rollo.

“I’ll go,” he said briefly, “and keep out of sight for a few minutes.  Get in the bath-room or somewhere, will you?” he added nervously, and opened the door.