He rang the bell violently, and presently there entered a grave, thin, intellectual man who looked like a duke, only more respectable. This was Webster, Mr. Bennett's English valet.

"Is that Mr. Mortimer?" he barked, as the door opened.

"No, sir. It is I--Webster." Not even the annoyance of being summoned like this from an absorbing game of penny nap in the housekeeper's room had the power to make the valet careless of his grammar. "I fancied that I heard your bell ring, sir."

"I wonder you could hear anything with that infernal noise going on," snapped Mr. Bennett, "Is Mr. Mortimer playing that--that damned gas-engine in the drawing-room?"

"Yes, sir. Tosti's Goodbye. A charming air, sir."

"Charming air be--! Tell him to stop it."

"Very good, sir."

The valet withdrew like a duke leaving the royal presence, not actually walking backwards, but giving the impression of doing so. Mr. Bennett lay in bed and fumed. Presently the valet returned. The music still continued to roll about the room.

"I am sorry to have to inform you, sir," said Webster, "that Mr. Mortimer declines to accede to your request."

"Oh, he said that, did he!"

"That is the gist of his remarks, sir."

"Did you tell him I was trying to get to sleep?"