"Because 'as 'ow Hi goes before a fall hand returns hafter it. Dabble will swear to that, sir. Aw, don't let a measly publishing cove cast you down, sir. W'y hall we 'as got to do is to cut McDermot dead when we meets 'im on Pall Mall. That 'll ruin 'im socially."
"You are a plucky little devil, Buster."
"Yessir," replied the boy, sagely. "You see, Hi hain't got no gal to worry me, sir."
"Ah, my lad," said Moore, nodding his head with a sigh, "that makes a world of difference after all."
"There is some one hat the door, sir," said Buster. "Shall Hi tell 'im you're hout?"
"No, lad, I 'll be glad of company. Bid him enter."
Buster obediently opened the door and a tall gentleman, magnificently dressed, stepped over the threshold.
"Is this the residence of Mr. Thomas Moore?" he asked, removing his hat politely.
At the sound of the new-comer's voice Moore started to his feet.
"It is, sir," he answered, advancing a step or two.