e come to
handy-grips. It's too late to start for Cowes, but it is not too late to
do something. Fitzpatrick, the political-economist, spent a quarter of a
century in South America. He is a very old friend--knew my father--and I
can venture to knock at his door after midnight--all the more as I know
he is a night-worker. He is very likely to enlighten us about your Cuban
hidalgo.'

'You shall finish your supper before I let you stir. After that you may
do what you like. I was always a child in your hands, Jack, whether it
was climbing a mountain or crossing the Horse-shoe Fall. I consider the
business in your hands now. I'll go with you wherever you like, and do
what you tell me. When you want me to kick anybody, or fight anybody,
you can give me the office and I'll do it. I know that Lesbia's
interests are safe in your hands. You once cared very much for her. You
are her brother-in-law now, and, next to me, you are her natural
protector, taking into account that her future husband is a cad and
doesn't score.'

'Meet me at Waterloo at ten minutes to seven to-morrow morning, and
we'll go down to Cowes together. I'm off to find Fitzpatrick. Good
night.'

So they parted. Lord Hartfield walked across the Park to Great George
Street, where Mr. Fitzpatrick had chambers of a semi-official character,
on the first floor of a solemn-looking old house, spacious, gloomy
without and within, walls sombre with the subdued colouring of
decorations half a century old.

The lighted windows of those first-floor rooms told Lord Hartfield that
he was not too late. He rang the bell, which was answered with the
briefest delay by a sleepy-looking clerk, who had been taking shorthand
notes for Mr. Fitzpatrick's great book upon 'Protection _versus_ Free
Trade.' The clerk looked sleepy, but his employer had as brisk an air as
if he were just beginning the day; although he had been working without
intermission since nine o'clock that evening, and had done a long day's
work before dinner. He was walking up and down the spacious unluxurious
room, half office, half library, smoking a cigar. Upon a large table in
the centre of the room stood two powerful reading lamps with green
shades, illuminating a chaotic mass of books and pamphlets, heaped and
scattered all over the table, save just on that spot between the two
lamps, which accommodated Mr. Fitzpatrick's blotting pad and inkpot, a
pewter inkpot which held about a pint.

'How d'ye do, Hartf