"I hope he is. I hope he'll die," said Mr. Bradshaw vengefully. "You've lived with Mr. Rivers?"
"Yes, sir."
"Can you announce visitors?"
"Yes, sir."
"Go to that door, and announce the Lord Mayor."
Rivers—or, rather, James Finny—flung open the door, and announced in stentorian accents, "His Worship the Lord Mayor of London."
"You hass!" shouted Mr. Bradshaw. "You only worship him when you're in the prisoners' box. I 'spect that's where you met him. Call him 'his Lordship' when he's a-wisitin'. Now again."
James obeyed.
"Bravo—that's better!" said another voice. It proceeded from a mite of a man who had approached noiselessly, and who now stood rubbing his hands approvingly. "But it's rather late for rehearsals, Mr. Bradshaw, isn't it?" he added.