"Simpson," said Lord Saltire, as he got into bed that evening, "it won't last much longer."
"What will not last, my lord?" said Simpson.
"Why, me," said Lord Saltire, disregarding grammar. "Don't set up a greengrocer's shop, Simpson, nor a butter and egg shop, in Berkeley Street, if you can help it, Simpson. If you must keep a lodging-house, I should say Jermyn Street; but don't let me influence you. I am not sure that I wouldn't sooner see you in Brook Street, or Conduit Street. But don't try Pall Mall, that's a good fellow; or you'll be getting fast men, who will demoralise your establishment. A steady connection among government clerks, and that sort of person, will pay best in the long run."
"My dear lord—my good old friend, why should you talk like this to-night?"
"Because I am very ill, Simpson, and it will all come at once; and it may come any time. When they open Lord Barkham's room, at Cottingdean, I should like you and Mr. Marston to go in first, for I may have left something or another about."
An hour or two after, his bell rang, and Simpson, who was in the dressing-room, came hurriedly in. He was sitting up in bed, looking just the same as usual.
"My good fellow," he said, "go down and find out who rung and knocked at the door like that. Did you hear it?"
"I did not notice it, my lord."
"Butchers, and bakers, and that sort of people, don't knock and ring like that. The man at the door now brings news, Simpson. There is no mistake about the ring of a man who comes with important intelligence. Go down and see."
He was not long gone. When he came back again, he said—