As he went out he cannoned against an elderly gentleman in a white
waistcoat, who was being shown in, and who ricochetted off him into the
office, where he shook hands heartily with the elder Girdlestone.
It was evident from the laboured cordiality of the latter's greeting
that the new-comer was a man of some importance. He was, indeed, none
other than the well-known philanthropist, Mr. Jefferson Edwards, M.P.
for Middlehurst, whose name upon a bill was hardly second to that of
Rothschild.

"How do, Girdlestone, how do?" he exclaimed, mopping his face with his
handkerchief. He was a fussy little man, with a brusque, nervous
manner. "Hard at it as usual, eh? Always pegging away. Wonderful man.
Ha, ha! Wonderful!"

"You look warm," the merchant answered, rubbing his hands. "Let me
offer you some claret. I have some in the cupboard."

"No, thank you," the visitor answered, staring across at the head of the
firm as though he were some botanical curiosity. "Extraordinary fellow.
'Iron' Girdlestone, they call you in the City. A good name, too--
ha! ha!--an excellent name. Iron-grey, you know, and hard to look at,
but soft here, my dear sir, soft here." The little man tapped him with
his walking-stick over the cardiac region and laughed boisterously,
while his grim companion smiled slightly and bowed to the compliment.

"I've come here begging," said Mr. Jefferson Edwards, producing a
portentous-looking roll of paper from an inner pocket. "Know I've come
to the right place for charity. The Aboriginal Evolution Society, my
dear boy. All it wants are a few hundreds to float it off. Noble aim,