Willis had an extensive connection; this, and his well-known talents, made him tolerably sure of a situation whenever he chose to seek one.  He had luxurious tastes, and thoroughly appreciated self-indulgence; so he determined to devote some time and a portion of his perquisites to relaxation before going into harness again.

On this particular evening he had in prospect a little dinner at Philippe’s—­not uncheered by the smiles of venal beauty—­and had just completed a careful toilette.  He was above the small peculations of his order; indeed, had he been inclined to plunder his late masters wardrobe, the absurd disproportion in their size would have saved him from that vulgar temptation.  He was somewhat choice in his tailors, and his clothes fitted him and suited him well.  He was reviewing the general effect in the glass with a complacent and rather egrillarde expression in his little eyes, when between him and his partie fine rose the apparition of the colonel, like that of the commander before a bolder profligate.  He knew that the interview must come, and did not wish to avoid it, but just at this moment it was singularly ill timed.  What a contrast between the stern, fixed gaze that seemed to nail him to the spot where he stood and the well-tutored glances of fair, frail Heloise!  He felt as if he had been put into the ice-pail by mistake for the Champagne.  However, he met his ill luck placidly, and, handing his visitor a chair, begged to know “what he could do to serve him.”

“You can tell me what became of a letter from Miss Brandon, which ought to have reached yow master two months ago, and miscarried.”

Willis was forewarned and armed for the question; but, even with this advantage given in, his blank, unconscious look and start of astonishment did him infinite credit.

“A letter, sir?” he said, vaguely, as if consulting his recollections.  “From Miss Brandon?  I have never seen or heard of such a thing.  If I had, of course I should have given it to Mr. Livingstone.  What else could I have done with it?”

“I will give a thousand francs for it,” Mohun went on, without noticing the denial, “or for a written acknowledgment of how you disposed of it, and at whose orders.”  He laid the bank-note on the table.

The flats changed; the look of bewilderment gave place to one of injured innocence—­an appeal against manifest injustice.  It was really artistically done.

“I am sorry, sir, that you should think I want a bribe to serve you or Mr. Livingstone.  It is quite out of my power now.  I don’t know what you refer to.”

“I have no time to bargain,” Ralph growled, and his eyes began to glisten ominously.  “Name your price, and have done with it.”

Finale and Grand Tableau—­virtuous indignation—­the faithful servant asserting his dignity as a man.  There was a hitch here somewhere; the scene-shifter was hardly up to his work, so that it was rather a failure.