I gave him my address, and we parted.
Robert Chalmers Fordyce arrived at my house next morning. He brought with him a budget of condensed but exhaustive information on the subject of Caerulea, the assimilation and ultimate discharge of which enabled me to score a signal victory over Mr Wuddiford of Upper Gumbtree, relegating that champion exploiter of mare's nests to a sphere of comparative inoffensiveness for quite a considerable time.
After reading the précis, I offered Robin the position of my Private Secretary, which he accepted politely but without servility or effusiveness. I handed him a quarter's salary in advance, gave him two days' holiday wherein to "make his arrangements"—Anglicè, to replenish his wardrobe—and we sealed the bargain with a glass of sherry and a biscuit apiece.
As he rose to go, Robin took from his pocket a folded manuscript.
"I see you have a good fire there," he said.
He stepped across to the hearth-rug and pitched the document into the heart of the flames, which began to lick it caressingly.
Presently the heat caused the crackling paper to unfold itself, and some of the writing became visible. Robert pointed, and I read—
"Pars about Personalities. A capital story is at present going the round of the clubs, anent——"
Here the flimsy manuscript burst into flame, and shot with a roar up the chimney.
I looked at Robert Chalmers Fordyce, and his face was the face of a man who has gone through deep waters, but feels the good solid rock beneath his feet at last.