“Where?” repeated Mr. Brimberly, fingering a slightly agitated whisker, “where is Young Har, sir?  Lord, Mr. Stevens, if you ask me that, I throws up my ’ands, and I answers you—­’eavens knows!  Young Har is a unknown quantity, sir—­a will o’ the wisp, or as you might say, a ignus fattus.  At this pre-cise moment ’e may be in Jerusalem or Jericho or—­a-sittin’ outside on the lawn—­which Gawd forbid!  But there, don’t let’s talk of it.  Come on down into the cellars, and we’ll bring up enough port to drownd sorrer an’ care all night.”

“With all my heart!” said Mr. Jenkins, laying aside his banjo.

“Ditto, indeed!” nodded Mr. Stevens, slipping a hand in his host’s arm, and thus linked together they made their way out of the room.

Scarcely had their hilarious voices died away when a muscular brown hand parted the hangings of an open window, and Geoffrey Ravenslee climbed into the room.  His rough clothes and shabby hat were powdered with dust, and he looked very much out of place amid his luxurious surroundings as he paused to glance swiftly from the bottles that decorated the carved mantel to those on table and piano.  Then, light-treading, he crossed the room, and as the hilarious three were heard approaching, vanished in his turn.

“’Ere we are, Jubilee Port!” exclaimed Mr. Brimberly, setting down two cobwebbed bottles with elaborate care, “obleege me with the corkscrew, somebody.”

“Won’t forget as you promised us a song, Brim!” said Mr. Jenkins, passing the necessary implement.

“Oh, I won’t disappoint ye,” answered Mr. Brimberly, drawing the cork with a practised hand; “my father were a regular songster, a fair carollin’ bird ’e were, sir.”

“’Ow about ’Knocked ’em in the Old Kent Road’?” Mr. Stevens suggested.

“Sir!” exclaimed Mr. Brimberly, pausing in the act of filling the glasses, “that’s rather a—­a low song, ain’t it?  What do you think, Mr. Jenkins?”

“Low?” answered Mr. Jenkins, “it’s as low as—­as mud, sir.  I might say it’s infernal vulgar—­what?”

“Why, I don’t care for it myself,” Mr. Stevens admitted rather humbly, “it was merely a suggestion.”

“With your good favour,” said Mr. Brimberly, after a tentative sip at his glass, “I’ll sing you a old song as was a rare favourite of my father’s.”

“Why, then,” said Mr. Jenkins, taking up his banjo, “oblige us with the key.”

“The key, sir?” answered Mr. Brimberly, pulling down his waistcoat, “what key might you mean?”

“The key of the note dominant, Brim.”

Mr. Brimberly stared and felt for his whisker.

“Note dominant,” he murmured; “I don’t think my song has anything of that sort—­”

“Oh, well, just whistle a couple o’ bars.”

“Bars,” said Mr. Brimberly, shaking his head, “bars, sir, is things wherewith I do not ’old; bars are the ’aunt of the ’umble ’erd, sir—­”

“No, no, Brim,” explained Mr. Stevens, “Jenk merely means you to ’um the air.”