“I see,” said Sypher. “‘Clem Sypher, Friend of Humanity,’ is the essence of the matter.”

“With the secret recipe, of course.”

“Of course,” said Sypher, absently.  He paced the room once or twice, then halted in front of Shuttleworth, looked at him fixedly for a second or two out of his clear eyes and resumed his walk; which was disconcerting for Shuttleworth, who wiped his spectacles.

“Do you think we might now go into some details with regard to terms?”

“No,” said Sypher, stopping short of the fireplace, “I don’t.  I’ve got to agree to the principle first.”

“But, surely, there’s no difficulty about that!” cried Shuttleworth, rising in consternation.  “I can see no earthly reason—­”

“I don’t suppose you can,” said Sypher.  “When do you want an answer?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Come to me in an hour’s time and I’ll give it you.”

Shuttleworth retired.  Sypher sat at his desk, his chin in his hand, and struggled with his soul, which, as all the world knows, is the most uncomfortable thing a man has to harbor in his bosom.  After a few minutes he rang up a number on the telephone.

“Are you the Shaftesbury Club?  Is Mr. Septimus Dix in?”

He knew that Septimus was staying at the club, as he had come to town to meet Emmy, who had arrived the evening before from Paris.

Mr. Dix was in.  He was just finishing breakfast, and would come to the telephone.  Sypher waited, with his ear to the receiver.

“Is that you, Septimus?  It’s Clem Sypher speaking.  I want you to come to Moorgate Street at once.  It’s a matter of immediate urgency.  Get into a hansom and tell the man to drive like the devil.  Thanks.”

He resumed his position and sat motionless until, about half an hour later, Septimus, very much scared, was shown into the room.

“I felt sure you were in.  I felt sure you would come.  There’s a destiny about all this business, and I seem to have a peep into it.  I am going to make myself the damnedest fool of all created beings—­the very damnedest.”

Septimus murmured that he was sorry to hear it.

“I hoped you might be glad,” said Sypher.

“It depends upon the kind of fool you’re going to make of yourself,” cried Septimus, a ray of wonderful lucidity flashing across his mind.  “There’s a couplet of Tennyson’s—­I don’t read poetry, you know,” he broke off apologetically, “except a little Persian.  I’m a hard, scientific person, all machinery.  My father used to throw poetry books into the fire if he caught me with one, but my mother used to read to me now and then—­oh, yes!—­Tennyson.  It goes:  ’They called me in the public squares, The fool that wears a crown of thorn.’  That’s the best kind of a fool to be.”  He suddenly looked round.  “Dear me; I’ve left my umbrella in the cab.  That’s the worst kind of a fool to be.”

He smiled wanly, dropped his bowler hat on the floor, and eventually sat down.