“Will you tell me what you want?” interrupted Harry, curtly.  References to Moorlands invariably roused his ire.

“I am coming to that, sir, slowly, but surely.  Now that I have found somebody that will listen to me—­that is, if you are Mr. Harry Rutter—­” The deferential air with which he said this was admirable.

“Oh, yes—­I’m the man,” answered Harry in a resigned voice.

“Yes, sir—­so I supposed.  And now I look at you, sir”—­here the gimlet was in full twist—­“I would make an affidavit to that effect before any notary.”  He began loosening his coat with his skinny fingers, fumbling in his inside pocket, thrusting deep his hand, as if searching for an elusive insect in the vicinity of his arm-pit, his talk continuing:  “Yes, sir, before any notary, you are so exactly like your father.  Not that I’ve seen your father, sir, very many times”—­the elusive had evidently escaped, for his hand went deeper.  “I’ve only seen him once—­once—­and it was enough.  It was not a pleasant visit, sir—­in fact, it was a most UNpleasant visit.  I came very near having cause for action—­for assault, really.  A very polite colored man was all that prevented it, and—­Ah—­here it is!” He had the minute pest now.  “Permit me to separate the list from the exhibits.”

At this Gadgem’s hand, clutching a bundle of papers, came out with a jerk—­so much of a jerk that St. George, who was about to end the comedy by ordering the man from the room, stopped short in his protest, his curiosity getting the better of him to know what the fellow had found.

“There, sir.”  Here he drew a long slip from the package, held it between his thumb and forefinger, and was about to continue, when St. George burst out with: 

“Look here, Gadgem—­if you have any business with Mr. Rutter you will please state it at once.  We have hardly finished breakfast.”

“I beg, sir, that you will not lose your temper.  It is unBUSinesslike to lose one’s temper.  Gadgem & Combes, sir, never lose their temper.  They are men of peace, sir—­ALways men of peace.  Mr. Combes sometimes resorts to extreme measures, but never Mr. Gadgem. I am Mr. Gadgem, sir,” and he tapped his soiled shirt-front with his soiled finger-nail.  “Peace is my watchword, that is why this matter has been placed in my hands.  Permit me, sir, to ask you to cast your eye over this.”

Harry, who was getting interested, scanned the long slip and handed it to St. George, who studied it for a moment and returned it to Harry.

“You will note, I beg of you, sir, the first item.”  There was a tone of triumph now in Gadgem’s voice.  “One saddle horse sixteen hands high, bought of Hampson & Co. on the”—­then he craned his neck so as to see the list over Harry’s shoulder—­“yes—­on the second of last September.  Rather overdue, is it not, sir, if I may be permitted to remark?” This came with a lift of the eyebrows, as if Harry’s oversight had been too naughty for words.