collar. Thus he sat at his work, absorbed in thought and calculation.
There came a gentle knock at the door, and with a frown of impatience the Minister called:—
"Come in!"
The outside guard entered, a card in his hand.
"Oh, I say, Sims," cried the Minister, "it's impossible for me to see anyone just now!"
"Very good, sir," replied the man, turning away, but on reflection Wynn said sharply—
"Who is it?"
"Lord Stranleigh of Wychwood, sir."
"Oh! Wait a moment."
The piercing eyes of the Minister seemed to look through the attendant, and gradually a gentle smile curved the corners of his mouth.
"Lord Stranleigh!" he muttered, and then:—"Oh, well, Sims, bring him in!"
There entered the most admirably groomed young man the Right Honourable had ever seen, and the Minister's first wonder was how he could look so cool, coming from the outer furnace of London in hot July. The silk hat he held in his hand was as glossy as the coat of a thoroughbred. Not a hair of his smoothly-brushed head was out of place. No crease was visible in his clothes, and
