hed at each other and embraced--the solemn, middle-aged
butler and the tall young footman--theatrically, after which they seemed
to come to their normal senses, and quietly shook hands.

"'Bliged to let some of the steam off, old man?" whispered the footman.

"Yes, Orthur, my boy, had to open the safety valve," replied the butler.
"We're made men, eh?"

"Not quite," said the footman, grinning, "but getting into shape. Three
hundred a-piece. I say, ain't it grand?"

"Splendid," said the butler, with a broad smile. "But steady now."

"I say; wasn't the idea right?"

"Right as right, my boy."

"Ah," said the footman, with a knowing wink, "who'd be without a good
only uncle to tip you when you want a few pounds to invest? I say,
though, you'll go and pay the old boy as soon as we're gone?"

"Won't be time."

"Oh yes; you'll be all right. Get it done. Make it easy if we want to
do it again, eh?"

"All right; I'll go. I say, Orthur, ain't I like a father to you?"

"Dear old man!" whispered the gentleman addressed, with a grin. "Me
long-lost forther!"

"Steady!" said the butler, sternly, and their masks of servitude were on
their faces again, with the elder stern and pompous, the younger
respectful and steady as a rock. "Yes; I'll go and put that right.
Must take a cab. You'll pay half?"

"Of course; that's all right, sir. Fair shares in everything. I say,
Bob's got something else on. Hadn't a chance to tell you before."

"Eh? What is that?"

"Goodwood. He's had a letter. I say, shall we be on there? Oh no, not
at all."

"Pst! coming down," whispered the butler; and the footman opened the
door and went out to the carriage, which soon after dashed off, while
the butler, after the regular glance up street and down, closed the
door. He descended to his pantry, where he drew a glossy hat from a
box, took an empty Gladstone bag from a cupboard and went out to hail
the first hansom round the corner. This rattled him away in the
direction of Bloomsbury, where he descended close to the great grim
portico of the church, and told the man to wait.

The driver gave a glance at him, but the butler looked too respectable
for a bilker, and he settled down for a quiet smoke, muttering, "Grapes
or pears."

But cabby was wrong. Mr Roach was not the class of domestic to lower
his dignity by engaging in a kind of commerce which could be properly
carried on by the fruiterer. He made for a quiet street, t