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  "Which were?"

  "How nice it is that you're not inquisitive."

  "I never have been, from a child. More sherry?"

  "I have some, thanks."

  "Then hey, hey!"

  "Hey hey!"

  "HEY!" cried Mr Duff, joining in the chorus from the doorway. Clunk, the osteopath, did his torso twisting at an address not very distant from the Duff and Trotter headquarters, and he had been able to get there and back in nice quick time.

  The mood in which J. B. Duff surveyed the scene before him was not a frolicsome one. Clunk, the old reliable, had given him a certain amount of physical relief, but this had been offset by the fact that his soul was feeling as if it had been churned up by an egg whisk. It was no kindly purveyor of hams and groceries who now stood brooding over the revels, but to all intents and purposes a fiend with a hatchet.

  To the stormy darkness of spirit from which he was suffering what had contributed most was the recent uncompromising rejection of his offer for the Chavender portrait. Establishing communication with Loose Chippings 803, he had been informed by a cold, metallic voice that Mrs Steptoe was speaking, and a few moments later this voice, now colder and even more metallic, had said, "Certainly not!" adding that it had never heard of such a thing. The receiver at the Loose Chippings end had then been replaced with a good deal of wristy follow-through.

  On top of this had come the store detective's conscientious report concerning Joss and the fruit. And now, hastening to the office to work off his pent-up venom on his erring employee, the first thing he saw as he opened the door was that young man presiding at what had all the appearance of an orgy. And simultaneously it dawned upon him that the basis of the orgy-what was making the party go-was his own personal sherry. Little wonder that he emitted that tempestuous "Hey!" Many men in his place would have said something stronger.

  The ejaculation, shattering the momentary silence, affected the two occupants of the room disagreeably. Sally, whose back was to the door and who had been unaware of this addition to the festivities, leaped as if a bomb had been touched off beneath her, while Joss, rising more slowly, stood contemplating his employer with an alert eye.

  It was clear to him that a situation had arisen which called for the promptest action. Miss Hesseltyne's communication had left him in no doubt as to the nature of the harangue which would follow that preliminary "Hey!" Once before, as she had reminded him, Mr Duff had spoken with a breezy frankness on the subject of wage slaves who helped themselves to the store's fruit. And it was the recollection of what he had said on that occasion that decided Joss to act swiftly.

  To approach Mr Duff, and seize Mr Duff by the shoulders and give Mr Duff what is familiarly known as the bum's rush was with him the work of a moment.

  "How dare you come in here and shout at me like that?" he demanded sternly. "Upon my soul, the discipline in this place gets worse every day. Excuse me," he said. "One of my staff. to see me about something. Back in a minute."

  He strode from the room, propelling Mr Duff before him, and closed the door.

  Chapter IV

  The conversation that took place in the passage outside was not an extended one. Mr Duff was temporarily incapable of speech, and Joss wanted to get back to Sally.

  "J. B.," said Joss, "would you care to be torn limb from limb?"

  Mr Duff had begun to feel alarmed. He had never heard of a staff artist assaulting his employer, but everything has to have a beginning and Joss, he knew, had an original mind and would not allow himself to be deterred by mere lack of precedent.

  "Because I'll tell you how you can work it. By going into that room and saying what you were intending to say. That girl in there is the most wonderful girl in the world, and if you think that I shall just stand saying 'Yes sir' and 'No sir' while you tick me off in her presence you are mistaken, J. B., grievously mistaken. If you so much as shove your nose inside that door till you're sent for, I'll break your spine in eight places. You'll think you're back at the osteopath's."

  He turned away with a severe glance, and Mr Duff found speech.

  "Hey!"

  "Yes, Duff?"

  "You're fired!"

  "All right."

  "Really fired, I mean."

  "All right, all right," said Josh impatiently. "I haven't time to talk shop now."

  He went back into the office.

  ''I'm so sorry," he said. "The trouble is, these fellows have no initiative. The least trifle that goes wrong, they lose their heads and come running to me. It's 'Ask Mr Weatherby,' 'Put it up to Mr Weatherby,' 'Mr Weatherby will know,' all the time. I suppose it's the penalty one pays for having a certain grip of things, but it can be very annoying. I had to be a little terse with poor old Wapshott."

  "Wapshott?"

  "That was Wapshott. P. P. Wapshott, head of the pressed beef and pâté de foie gras department."

  "How odd."

  "Why odd?"

  "He looked to me just like Mr Duff."

  "But I gathered you had not :met Mr Duff."

  "His, picture is on the wrapper of Paramount Ham."

  "Ah? I had forgotten that. Yes, you are quite right. It was Mr Duff."

  "What happened?"

  "He fired me. And, do you know, I had a premonition that he would. I suppose I'm psychic."

  Sally had been principally concerned with the probable effect of the recent activities on her own fortunes, reasoning correctly that a J. B. Duff who had just been bundled out of his office by the shoulder blades would be in no mood to listen with sympathy to a tale of young love. She now forgot self. This pleasant, if half-witted, young man was in trouble, and she grieved for him.

  "Oh, I am sorry."

  "The loss is his."

  "Why did you do it?"

  "I had no option. A little unpleasantness has arisen this morning in connection with my habit of helping myself to samples from the fruit and veg. department, and I saw that he was about to deliver a set speech on the . subject, coupled with the name of sherry. I naturally couldn't have him doing that in front of you.

  He's an outspoken old bird, and it would have been impossible for you, listening to him, to have retained the high opinion you have formed of me. At the moment when he entered the room you were just saying to yourself, 'What a splendid fellow this Mr Weatherby is, to be sure! I can't remember ever meeting a man I admired more.' Two minutes of J. B. Duff's coarse abuse, and my glamour would have wilted like a salted snail."

  "But what will you do?"

  "You mean in the way of securing other employment? That's all right. I'm going to be Mr Steptoe's valet."

  "What?"

  "You said the place was open."

  "But you can't be a valet."

  "Why not?"

  "How can you?"

  "By presenting myself at Claines Hall this afternoon in that capacity. You aren't going to tell me that you refuse to give me the nomination? If it hadn't been for you I wouldn't be out of a job.

  There are such things as moral obligations. Do have some more sherry, won't you? This may be our last chance of enjoying J. B. Duff's hospitality."

  Sally shook her head. She was thinking. If she was to secure something special in the way of gentlemen's personal gentlemen, as Mrs Steptoe had enjoined upon her, this did seem an admirable opportunity of doing it.

  It seemed, indeed, the only opportunity. The registry office that morning had been able to produce none but the softer and more fragile type of valet. Wispy young men with spaniel eyes and deferential manners had been paraded before her in large numbers, all probably admirable at folding, brushing and pressing, but all obviously unfitted for the stern task of making Howard Steptoe see reason in the matter of stiff-bosomed shirts for evening wear.

  If ·she went back there after lunch, it would, she knew, be merely to inspect a further procession of human rabbits.

  Moreover, though now a little subdued by the thought of her coming interview with Mr Duff, she was a lighthearted girl and e
njoyed simple, wholesome comedy. The prospect of watching Mr Steptoe's reactions when confronted with Joss made a strong appeal to her.

  "Well, if you're really serious."

  "Of course I'm serious," said Joss. As an alternative to having this girl pass from his life he would have accepted office as the Claines Hall scullery maid. When love came to them the Weatherbys did not count the cost.

  "You haven't forgotten what I told you about Mr Steptoe?"

  "Yes, I have. What did you tell me about Mr Steptoe?"

  "He's rather a difficult man."

  "Tough, eh?"

  "Very tough!"

  "I understand. One of these twenty-minute eggs. That's quite all right. To one who has been in the entourage of J. B. Duff all other eggs seem ludicrously soft-boiled. Steptoe will be a nice rest.

  Well, now that that's settled how about a bite of lunch?"

  "I can't, I'm afraid. I must see Mr Duff."

  "Of course, yes. I was forgetting. I'll send him in."

  Mr Duff was leaning against the wall in a daydream. There had just floated into his mind like drifting thistledown the thought of how pleasant it would be to skin Joss.

  "Hey!" said Joss. "You're to go in."

  "Well, don't forget you're fired," said Mr Duff, who wished to leave no loophole for misunderstanding on this point.

  Chapter V

  As MR DUFF came into the office , she realized that the fateful interview was about to begin, Sally gave a quick gasp, as if iced water had been poured down her back. She felt like a very small Christian in the arena watching the approach of an outsize lion.

  Then, as he advanced and she was able to see him steadily and see him whole, her nervousness left her, giving place to a maternal tenderness. J. B. Duff's features were working in what had the appearance of agony.

  The fact was that Mr Duff, a devil of a fellow among his own sex, was terrified of women. He avoided them if possible, and when cornered by one without hope of escape always adopted the shrewd tactics of the caterpillar of the puss moth-which, we are told by an eminent authority, "not satisfied with Nature's provisions for its safety, makes faces at young birds and alarms them considerably." That was why Mr Duff's features were working. Nature, making provision for his safety, had given him bushy eye-brows and piercing eyes, and he threw in the faces as an extra.

  But to Sally he seemed in pain and, being a nice girl, she became the little mother.

  "Won't you have some sherry?" she said, remembering what a tonic it had been to her.

  This hospitable offer, coming on top of all the other disturbing events of the morning, had the effect of unmanning Mr Duff for a moment. But he was practical. You have to be to build up a world-famous hammery. He needed sherry, so he accepted it.

  "Thanks," he said gruffly.

  "Drink that, and you'll feel better."

  "How do you know I'm not feeling fine?"

  "I thought Mr Weatherby might have upset you."

  "Young thug!"

  "I liked him."

  "You can have him."

  "He's funny."

  "He doesn't amuse me."

  "Who is he?"

  "Look," said Mr Duff, whom this topic of conversation was afflicting with a rising nausea. "Suppose we don't talk about him any more." It occurred to him that he had not yet been informed to what he owed the honour of this visit. "Who are you?"

  "My name is Fairmile."

  "You want to see me?"

  "Yes."

  "What about?"

  Sally took the plunge.

  "Lord Holbeton asked me to come and see you. I...He...He's staying at the house where I live."

  "Where's that? I haven't heard from him in months. Began to hope he was dead."

  A coldness crept into Sally's manner. She decided that she had been wrong in thinking this man an old pet.

  "Claines Hall," she said shortly. "It's in Sussex."

  "Claines Hall? That's curious. Do you know Mrs Chavender?"

  "Of course."

  "Seen that ,:portrait of her that's there?"

  "Of course."

  "What's it like?"

  "It's good."

  "It really gets that snooty expression of hers?"

  "Oh yes."

  Mr Duff sighed wistfully.

  "But who told you about it?"

  "Young Weatherby. He painted it."

  "Is he an artist?"

  "Yes."

  "I was wondering what he was."

  "I could tell you what I think he is."

  "He must be very clever."

  "Now we're back to him again!" said Mr Duff disgustedly. "I thought you told me you had come to talk about George Trotter."

  "George Holbeton."

  "Well, George Holbeton, if you prefer it. His father was Percy Trotter till he started going around under an alias. I suppose he sent you to try to get money out of me?"

  "Yes," said Sally, startled at this clairvoyance.

  "Why didn't he come himself?"

  It was a question which Sally had anticipated.

  "He isn't well."

  "What's the matter with him?''

  "He-er-he's got a sore throat."

  "I don't wonder. Does he still sing all the time?"

  "He sings quite a lot."

  "If you can call it singing. Sounds like gas escaping from a pipe.

  'But only God can make a tree.' Bah! In a really civilized community crooners would be shot on sight. Well, I won't give him a penny. How do you come to be mixing yourself up in this?"

  "We're engaged."

  "What! You've gone and got engaged to George Holbeton?"

  "Yes.'•

  "Then you ought to have your head examined," said Mr Duff.

  Sally stiffened. Her manner became colder.

  ''I'm sorry now," she said, "that I gave you that sherry."

  "What do you mean, gave me that sherry?" retorted Mr Duff warmly. "It's my sherry."

  The point was one which Sally had overlooked, and she found herself unable to frame a telling reply.

  "Engaged to George Holbeton?" said Mr Duff, marvelling. An idea seemed to strike him. "Are you rich?"

  "No."

  "Then how on earth can you be engaged to George Holbeton?" said Mr Duff, plainly bewildered.

  "I think I'll go," said Sally.

  It seemed that Mr Duff was quite willing that she should do so.

  He allowed her to reach the door without speaking. Then suddenly, as her fingers were on the handle, there passed through his portly frame a sort of spasm, causing it to quiver like a jelly. He had the appearance of a man whose brow a thought has flushed.

  "Wait!" he cried.

  Sally paused, cold and hostile. Her nose was small, but she tilted it with an almost Chavenderesque hauteur.

  "Why? I've said all I came to say."

  "I've a proposition I'd like to put up to you."

  "You've refused to give George his money."

  "Yes, but I think we can do a deal."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Come and sit down."

  Sally returned to her seat.

  "Well?"

  Mr Duff was frowning at the desk, as if wondering how to begin. His eye fell on the picture of himself which Joss had drawn for Mrs Chavender, and he stared at it unpleasantly for a moment.

  Then he crumpled it up and threw it in the wastepaper basket.

  The action seemed to have the effect of clearing his mind. He had found the right approach, and in a business conference the right approach is everything.

  "Listen," he said. "Lemme tell you a little story."

  Chapter VI

  Since early morning the summer sun had been shining down from a cloudless sky on Claines Hall and neighbourhood. Birds had twittered, bees buzzed and insects tootled. But despite these agreeable weather conditions the day had been for George, second Baron Holbeton, one of gloom and mental unrest. The strain of waiting for news from the front had brought him within measurable di
stance of a fit of the vapours.

  Mrs Steptoe's announcement during luncheon that Mr Duff had been on the telephone, offering extravagant sums for the .portrait of Mrs Chavender, had done nothing to diminish his anxiety.