"Your death-knell's inside," said Mr. Driver. "Hear it rattle," and he shook the envelope in Mr. Toft's ear. "But it wants a stamp, or the Government might not take it in. On such trifles do our destinies depend, Septimus. Have you got a stamp?" He put an anticipatory penny on the table.
Mr. Toft hesitated no longer. From one end of his watch-chain he detached a gold key, which he handed covertly to Driver.
"Now your visitin' card."
Mr. Toft produced one, and handed it over. "You'll give me that letter now," he pleaded.
J. Driver shook his head, tore up the packet, and put it into the fire. "Better there," he said oracularly. "Now, Toft, my boy, don't worry. You'll have that key back by Friday, and all your spoons'll be in the box. If you don't interfere you'll never hear of me again, and the Admiralty won't either; but if you take one step behind my back I'll do all I've threatened, and a lot more, and you'll be building Portland Breakwater on Christmas Day. By-bye, Septimus."
With this Mr. Driver rose, and stalked out of the room. After a modest interval Mr. Toft followed.
At 9 a.m. on the following morning the bell of the Fellmongers' Company pealed vigorously. The porter hurried to answer it, and found a lady on the doorstep. She was neatly dressed, and was strikingly handsome. She might be twenty-five years old. A boy carrying a portfolio and a strapped-up easel stood behind.
"Is this the Fellmongers' Hall?" she asked.
"It is, Miss."
"I want to know if you will be good enough to allow me to copy a painting you have on your walls? I do not know if it is necessary to have any written permission, or where to apply for it."