He was aroused by the sound of a box-door opening and shutting; and a shining shirt-front and a shining face darted suddenly into the light.  At the same moment a voice hailed him.

“Hello, Razors!  That you?”

Voice, face, and shining shirt-front belonged to Mr. Richard Pilkington, Financial Agent, of Shaftesbury Avenue.

“Razors” was the name by which Rickman was known to his intimates in subtle allusion to his youth.  He responded sulkily to the hail.  Dicky Pilkington was the last person he desired to meet.  For he owed Dicky a certain sum, not large, but larger than he could conveniently pay, and Dicky was objectionable for other reasons.  He had mysterious relations with the Management of the Jubilee Theatre, and consequently unlimited facilities of access to Miss Poppy Grace.  Besides, there was something about him that was deadly to ideas.

Ideas or no ideas, Mr. Pilkington was not to be evaded.  He bore down on Rickman, shining genially, and addressed him with an air of banter.

“Couldn’t have arranged it better.  You’re the very fellow I want.”

There was a suggestion of a chuckle in his voice which sent Rickman’s thoughts flying fearfully to his last I.O.U.  The alert mind of Pilkington followed their flight.  He was intensely amused.  He always was amused when anybody showed a marked distaste for his society.

“Your business, not mine, this time, Rick.  I happen to know of a ripping old library for sale down in Devonshire.  Shouldn’t have thought of it if I hadn’t seen you.”

“Well?” Rickman’s face expressed an utter inability to perceive the connection.  Once the iron shutters had closed on Rickman’s he felt that he was no more a part of it.  Words could not express his abhorrence of the indecent people who insisted on talking shop out of shop hours.  And Dicky never had any decency.

“Well—­it’s practically on our hands, d’ye see?  And if your people care to take over the whole lot, I can let you have it pretty reasonably.”

Rickman’s face emptied itself of all expression whatever.

“I say, you are a cool young cuss.  Is this the way you generally do business?”

“I’ll think it over.”

“Wouldn’t think too long if I were you.  It ought to go by auction, and it might; only private contract’s preferred.”

“Why preferred?”

“Out of respect for the feelin’s of the family.”

Rickman’s eyes were wandering dreamily from the matter in hand.  They had alighted on an enormous photograph of Miss Poppy Grace.  For an instant thought, like a cloud, obscured the brilliance of Mr. Pilkington’s face.

“Anyhow I’ve given you the straight tip,” said Pilkington.

“Thanks.  We’ll send a fellow down to overhaul the thing.”

“He’d better hurry up then.  It may have to go by auction after all.  But if you’d like the refusal of it, now’s your chance.”