‘Who’s this from, I wonder?’ he said, as he opened the envelope.

He found a short letter, and a printed slip which looked like a circular.  The former ran thus: 

’Sir,—­I am about to deliver a course of evening lectures on a period of English Literature in a room which I have taken for the purpose, No.—­High Street, Lambeth.  I desire to have a small audience, not more than twenty, consisting of working men who belong to Lambeth.  Attendance will be at my invitation, of course without any kind of charge.  You have been mentioned to me as one likely to be interested in the subject I propose to deal with.  I permit myself to send you a printed syllabus of the course, and to say that it will give me great pleasure if you are able to attend.  I should like to arrange for two lectures weekly, each of an hour’s duration; the days I leave undecided, also the hour, as I wish to adapt these to the convenience of my hearers.  If you feel inclined to give thought to the matter, will you meet me at the lecture-room at eight o’clock on the evening of Sunday, August 16, when we could discuss details?  The lectures themselves had better, I should think, begin with the month of September.

’Reply to this is unnecessary; I hope to have the pleasure of meeting you on the 16th.—­Believe me to be yours very truly,

‘WALTER EGREMONT.’

‘Ah, this is what Ackroyd was speaking of on Saturday,’ Gilbert remarked, holding the letter to his mother.  ’I wonder what it means.’

‘Who is this Mr. Egremont?’ asked Mrs. Grail.

’He belongs to the firm of Egremont & Pollard, so Ackroyd tells me.  You know that big factory in Westminster Bridge Road—­where they make oil-cloth.’

Gilbert was perusing the printed syllabus; it interested him, and he kept it by his plate when he sat down to dinner.

‘Do you think of going?’ his mother inquired.

’Well, I should like to, if the lectures are good.  I suppose he’s a young fellow fresh from college.  He may have something to say, and he may be only conceited; there’s no knowing.  Still, I don’t dislike the way he writes.  Yes, I think I shall go and have a look at him, at all events.’

Gilbert finished his meal and walked back to the factory.  Groups of men were standing about in the sunshine, waiting for the bell to ring; some talked and joked, some amused themselves with horse-play.  The narrow street was redolent with oleaginous matter; the clothing of the men was penetrated with the same nauseous odour.

At a little distance from the factory, Ackroyd was sitting on a door-step, smoking a pipe.  Grail took a seat beside him and drew from his pocket the letter he had just received.

‘I’ve got one of them, too,’ Luke observed with small show of interest.  There was an unaccustomed gloom on his face; he puffed at his pipe rather sullenly.

‘Who has told him our names and addresses?’ Gilbert asked.