“I know what you’re driving at,” broke in Gammon good-humouredly, as he sat in bed with his knees up.  “You’ve nowhere to sleep—­ain’t that it?”

“No, no; I assure you no!” exclaimed the other, with unfailing politeness.  “I have excellent lodgings in the parish of St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields; besides, you don’t imagine I should disturb you after midnight for such a trivial cause!  You have heard of the death of Lord Bolsover?”

“Never knew he was living,” cried Gammon.

“Nonsense, you are an incorrigible joker.  The poor fellow died nearly a week ago.  Of course I must attend his funeral to-morrow down at Hitchin; I really couldn’t neglect to attend his funeral.  And here comes my difficulty.  At present I’m driving a’ Saponaria’ van, and I shall have to provide a substitute, you see.  I thought I had found one, a very decent fellow called Grosvenor, who declares, by the by, that he can trace his connexion with the aristocratic house—­interesting, isn’t it?  But Grosvenor has got into trouble to-day—­something about passing a bad half-crown—­a mere mistake, I’m quite sure.  Now I’ve been trying to find someone else—­not an easy thing; and as I must have a substitute by nine to-morrow, I came in despair to you.  I’m sure in your wide acquaintance, my dear Gammon—­”

“Hold on, what’s ’Saponaria’?”

“A new washing powder; only started a few days.  Big vans, painted vermilion and indigo, going about town and suburbs distributing handbills and so on.”

“I see.  But look here, Greenacre, what’s all this rot about Lord Bolsover?”

“My dear Gammon,” protested the other.  “I really can’t allow you to speak in that way.  I make all allowance for the hour and the circumstances, but when it comes to the death of a dear friend—­”

“How the devil come you to be his friend, or he yours?” shouted Gammon in comical exasperation.

“Why, surely you have heard me speak of him.  Yet, perhaps not.  It was rather a painful subject.  The fact is, I once gave the poor fellow a severe thrashing; it was before he succeeded to the title I was obliged to do it.  Poor Bolsover confessed afterwards that he had behaved badly (there was a lady in the case), but it put an end to our intimacy.  And now he’s gone, and the least I can do is to attend his funeral.  That reminds me, Gammon, I fear I shall have to borrow a sovereign, if it’s quite convenient to you.  There’s the hire of the black suit, you see, and the fare to Hitchin.  Do you think you could?”

He paused delicately, whereupon Gammon burst into a roar of laughter which echoed through the still house.

“You’re the queerest devil I know,” was the remark that followed.  “It’s no use trying to make out what you’re really up to.”

“I have stated the case in very clear terms,” replied Greenacre solemnly.  “The chief thing is to find a substitute to drive the ‘Saponaria’ van.”