"And you are looking half a dozen years younger, my dear uncle. How is the liver?"
"It ought to be pretty well shaken to pieces, from the way I've trotted it about. It hasn't troubled me for months, I am glad to say. I've had a most enjoyable holiday, and a longer one than I intended to take. I stopped in Norway seven weeks, and then went to the Continent. I did the German baths, Vienna and a lot of other big cities, and came to Paris. There I met an old Anglo-Indian friend, and he dragged me down to the Riviera for a month. But there is no place like home. I've been in town only a couple of hours—crossed this morning. And to-morrow I'm off to Priory Court."
"So soon?"
"Yes; I can't endure your fogs."
There was an awkward pause. Nevill struck a match and put it to his cigar, though it did not need relighting. Sir Lucius coughed, and stirred nervously in his chair.
"You remember that little matter I wrote you about," he began. "Have you done anything?"
"My dear uncle, I have left nothing undone that I could think of," Nevill replied; "but I am sorry to say that I have met with no success whatever. It was a most difficult undertaking, after so many years."
"I feared it would be. You didn't advertise?"
"No; you told me not to do that."
"Quite right. I wished to avoid all publicity. But what steps did you take?"