glass which Felix had been in the act of raising to his lips lay shattered upon the floor, and a little stream of wine trickled across the carpet. Felix himself seemed scarcely conscious of the disaster. His cheeks were white, and he leaned across the table towards Mr. Sabin.     

       “What name did you say—what name?”      

       Mr. Sabin referred again to the letter which he held in his hand.     

       “Brott!” he repeated. “He is Home Secretary, I believe.”      

       “What do you know about him?”      

       “Nothing,” Mr. Sabin answered. “My niece, the Countess of Camperdown, asks me to meet him to-day at luncheon. Explain yourself, my young friend. There is a fresh glass by your side.”      

       Felix poured himself out a glass and drank it off. But he remained silent.     

       “Well?”      

       Felix picked up his gloves and stick.     

       “You are asked to meet Mr. Brott at luncheon to-day?”      

       “Yes.”      

       “Are you going?”      

       “Certainly!”      

       Felix nodded.     

       “Very good,” he said. “I should advise you to cultivate his acquaintance. He is a very extraordinary man.”      

       “Come, Felix,” Mr. Sabin said. “You owe me something more lucid in the way of explanations. Who is he?”      

       “A statesman—successful, ambitious. He expects to be Prime Minister.”      

       “And what have I to do with him, or he with me?” Mr. Sabin asked quietly.     

       Felix shook his head.     

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