paper. He saw a signature, "Leonard Barclay," which he vaguely remembered in some connection or other. He read an invitation to deliver an address for the Research Club upon any day he might choose, but if possible during the next week. The Research Club would take for the occasion the large room at Gorton's. That was all.
"Lucky beast!" murmured Babcock, not quite loud enough for the typist to hear, as he fixed the reading Higginson with his eye.
The reading Higginson laid down the letter, nodded inanely, and said—
"Well, ought I to take that, Babcock? Who are the Research Club?"
"Who are the Research Club? Wuff! What a man! They make men!" said Babcock bitterly, "that 's what they are! Do you mean to say you don't know?" he went on, leaning over and talking earnestly in a low tone. "Do you mean to say you haven't heard of the Research Club?"
"Somewhere, I dare say," said Professor Higginson confusedly.
But he hadn't. It was a great moment for Babcock. He had not been among the "nuts" for nothing.
"Come," said he, like a man who is leading up to a great business, "you know who Leonard Barclay is?"
