concerning him unknown.     

  

  

       A stiff, uninhabited-looking apartment of considerable size, lit with the electric light, upholstered in light wood and new red leather, and ornamented by a life-sized portrait of Fisher himself, this picture being as uncompromising and apoplectic as the original. Finally, standing in an artificially easy attitude before a fireplace containing a frilled arrangement of pink paper, picture an exceedingly uncomfortable Frenchman.     

       “You scarcely expected me?” I begin, with a smile.     

       “I did not,” says Fisher.     

       “I did not expect to see you,” I continue; but to this he makes no reply.     

       “I was looking for the house of Mr. Hankey.”      

       “Were you?” says Fisher.     

       “Do you know him?” I ask.     

       “No,” says Fisher.     

       A pause. The campaign has opened badly; no doubt of that. I must try another move.     

       “You will wonder how I knew him,” I say, pleasant.     

       Fisher only breathes more heavily.     

       “Our mutual friend, Smith,” I begin, watching closely to see if his mind responds to this name. I know that Smith is common in England, and think he will surely know some one so called. “Smith mentioned you.”      

       But no, there is no gleam of recognition.     

       “Indeed,” is all he remarks, very calmly.     

       There is no help for it, I must go on.     

       “I intended to call upon you some day this week. I have heard you highly spoken of—'The great Fisher,' 

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