“Yes, Mr. Pawson, please say to Mr. Temple that it is GADgem, of GADgem & Coombs—­and say that I will be here at ten o’clock to-morrow—­sharp—­on the minute; I am ALways on the minute in matters of this kind.  Only five minutes of his time—­five minutes, remember—­” and he passed out of hearing.

Todd, now duly installed as co-conspirator, opened the ball the next morning at breakfast.  St. George had slept late, and the hands of the marble clock marked but a few minutes of the hour of Gadgem’s expected arrival, and not a moment could be lost.

“Dat Gadgem man done come yere yisterday,” he began, drawing out his master’s chair with an extra flourish to hide his nervousness, “an’ he say he’s commin’ ag’in dis mornin’ at ten o’clock.  Clar to goodness it’s dat now!  I done forgot to tell ye.”

“What does he want, Todd?” asked St. George, dropping into his seat.

“I dunno, sah—­said he was lookin’ fo’ sumpin’ fo’ a frien’ ob his—­I think it was a gun—­an’ he wanted to know what kind to buy fur him—­ Yes, sah, dem waffles ‘s jes’ off de fire.  He ’lowed he didn’t know nuffin’ ‘bout guns—­butter, sah?—­an’ den Mister Pawson spoke up an’ said he’d better ask you.  He’s tame dis time—­leastways he ’peared so.”

“A fine gun is rather a difficult thing to get in these days, Todd,” replied St. George, opening his napkin.  “Since old Joe Manton died I don’t know but one good maker—­and that’s Purdey, of London, and he, I hear, has orders to last him five years.  No, Todd—­I’d rather have the toast.”

“Yes, sah—­I knowed ye couldn’t do nuffln’ fur him—­Take de top piece—­dat’s de brownest—­but he seemed so cut up ‘bout it dat I tol’ him he might see ye fur a minute if he come ’long ’bout ten o’clock, when you was fru’ yo’ bre’kfus’, ‘fo’ ye got tangled up wid yo’ letters an’ de papers.  Dat’s him now, I spec’s.  Shall I show him in?”

“Yes, show him in, Todd.  Gadgem isn’t a bad sort of fellow after all.  He only wants his pound of flesh, like the others.  Ah, good-morning, Mr. Gadgem.”  The front door had been purposely left open, and though the bill collector had knocked by way of warning, he had paused for no answer and was already in the room.  The little man laid his battered hat silently on a chair near the door, pulled down his tight linen sleeves with the funereal binding, adjusted his high black stock, and with half-creeping, half-cringing movement, advanced to where St. George sat.

“I said good-morning, Mr. Gadgem,” repeated St. George in his most captivating tone of voice.  He had been greatly amused at Gadgem’s antics.

“I heard you, sir—­I heard you DIStinctly, sir—­I was only seeking a place on which to rest my hat, sir—­not a very inSPIRing hat-quite the contrary—­but all I have.  Yes, sir—­you are quite right—­it is a very good morning—­a most deLIGHTful morning.  I was convinced of that when I crossed the park, sir.  The trees—­”