"Possibly so," Macbean admitted, recollecting that well-remembered day when he had greeted His Excellency on the lawn at Orton and the statesman had at once recognised him.

"Well, however it has been arranged, it is a jolly good lift for you, old man," declared Billy, smoking vigorously. "You should take a leaf out of Morgan-Mason's book, and use everyone, even the most vulgar of moneyed plutocrats and the most hide-bound of bureaucrats, for your own advantage. If you do, you'll get on in the world. It's the only way nowadays, depend upon it. New men, new methods. All the old traditions of life, all the dignity and delicacy and pride of birth, have gone by the board in these days of brainy smartness and pushful go. Life's book to-day, old fellow, is full of disgraced and blotted leaves."

George sighed. He was used to Billy's plainly expressed philosophy.

His criticisms were always full of a grim humour, and he was never tired of denouncing the degenerates of the present in comparison with bygone days. He was a Bohemian, and prided himself on that fact. He entertained a most supreme and withering contempt for modern place-hunters and for the many wind-bags in his own profession who got on because of their family influence or by the fortunate circ.u.mstance of being in a celebrated case. He declared always that no man at the bar came forward by sheer merit nowadays, and that all depended upon either luck or influence. Not, however, that he ever begrudged a man his success. On the contrary, he liked to see the advancement of his friends, and even though downhearted and filled with poignant regret at being compelled to part with George Macbean, yet he honestly wished him all the good fortune a true friend could wish.

Mrs Bridges, the shuffling old laundress, whose chief weakness was "a drop o' something," who constantly spoke of her "poor husband," and whose tears were ever flowing, cleared away the remains of their breakfast, and the two men spent the whole morning together smoking and contemplating the future.

"I suppose they'll put you into a gorgeous uniform and a sword when you get to Rome," laughed Grenfell presently. "You'll send me a photo, won't you?" And his big face beamed with good-humour.

"Secretaries don't wear uniforms," was the other's response.

"No, but you'll soon rise to be something else," the barrister a.s.sured him. "A fellow isn't singled out by a foreign Government like you are unless he gets something worth having in a year or two! They'll appreciate you more than our friend the provision-dealer has done. I shan't forget the way the fellow spoke to me when I called upon you that morning. He couldn't have treated a footman worse than you and me. I felt like addressing the Court for the defence."

"Well, it's all over now," laughed his friend. "This evening I shall give him notice to leave his service, and I admit frankly that I shall do so with the greatest pleasure."

"I should think so, indeed," Billy remarked. "And don't forget to tell him our private opinion of such persons as himself. He may be interested to know what a mere man-in-the-street thinks of a moneyed dealer in b.u.t.ter and bacon. By Jove! if I only had the chance I should make a few critical remarks that he would not easily forget."

"I quite believe it!" exclaimed George merrily. "But now I'm leaving him we can afford to let bygones be bygones. I only pity the poor devil who becomes my successor."

And both men again lapsed into a thoughtful silence, George's mind being filled with recollections of those warm summer days of tea-drinking and tennis when he was guest of his uncle, the Reverend Basil Sinclair, at Thornby.

What, he wondered, could have induced that tall, sallow-faced foreigner, the Italian Under-Secretary for War, to offer him such a lucrative appointment? He had only met him once, for a few moments, when the Minister's wife had introduced them in an interval of tennis on the lawn at Orton.

There was a motive in it. But what it was he could not discern.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

A MILLIONAIRE'S TACTICS.

Mr Morgan-Mason, the Member for South-West Norfolk, sat alone in his gorgeous gilt and white dining-room with the remains of dessert spread before him. A coa.r.s.e-faced, elderly man with grey side-whiskers, a wide expanse of glossy shirt-front, and a well-cut dinner coat, he was twisting his winegla.s.s between his fingers while a smile played about his lips. His obese figure, with shoulders slightly rounded, a bull neck, and gross, flabby features, gave one the impression that he lived for himself alone, that his life was a selfish, idle one.

His house in town and his place in the country were the typical abodes of a _nouveau riche_. His motors, his yacht, and his racehorses were the very best that money could command, and yet with all his display of wealth he still carried the tenets of the counting-house into his private life. He gave "fifty-guinea-a-head" dinners at the Carlton, it was true, but his entertainments were not on a large scale. He lent the aristocracy money, and allowed them to entertain him in return. He considered it an honour to be made use of by the hard-up earl or by the peeress whose debts at bridge were beyond her means. A knighthood had been offered him, but he had politely declined, letting it be distinctly known to the Prime Minister that nothing less than a peerage would be acceptable; and this had actually been half promised! He was the equal, nay, the superior, of those holders of once-exclusive t.i.tles who left their cards upon him and who shot his grouse; for, as a recent writer has declared, the G.o.d Mammon is to-day gradually drawing into its foetid embrace all the rank and beauty and n.o.bility that once made England the glorious land she is.

He had taken a telegram from his pocket, and re-read it--a message from a woman bearing one of the n.o.blest t.i.tles in the English peerage, asking audaciously for a loan, and inviting him up to her country-house in Durham, where an exclusive party was being entertained. He smiled with gratification, for the sovereign was among her ladyship's guests.

He touched the bell, and in answer the butler entered. "Tell Macbean to come here," he ordered, without looking up. "And give me a liqueur. I don't want coffee to-night."

The elderly, grave-faced servant served his master obsequiously, and noiselessly disappeared.

A few minutes later there came a light rap at the door and George Macbean entered.

"Just reply to this wire," the millionaire said, handing it to his secretary. "Tell her ladyship that I'll leave King's Cross at eleven to-morrow, and that what she mentions will be all right. You need not mention the word loan; she'll understand. I can't dictate to-night, as I'm going to the club. Be here at seven in the morning, and I'll reply to letters while I'm dressing."

Macbean took the telegram and hesitated.

"Well? What are you waiting there for? Haven't you had your dinner-- eh?"

"Yes, I have had my dinner, Mr Morgan-Mason," was the young man's quick reply, his anger rising. "I wish to speak a word to you."

"Well, what's the matter? Work too hard? If so, you can take a month's notice and go. Lots more like you to be got," added the man with the fat, flabby face.

"The work is not too hard," was Macbean's response, speaking quite calmly. "I only wish to say that I intend leaving you, having accepted a Government appointment."

"A Government appointment?" echoed the millionaire. "Has Balfour given you a seat in the Cabinet, or are you going to be a doorkeeper or something of that sort down at the House?"

"Neither. My future is my own affair."

"Well, I wish you good luck in it," sneered his employer. "I'll see that the next secretary I get isn't a gentleman. Airs and graces don't suit me, my boy. I see too much of 'em in Mayfair. I prefer the people of the Mile End Road myself. I was born there, you know, and I'm proud of it."

"Shall I send the telegram from the Strand office?" asked Macbean, disregarding the vulgarian's remarks. "It is Sunday night, remember."

"Send it from where you like," was the man's reply. And then, as the secretary turned to leave, he called him back, saying in a rather more conciliatory tone--

"You haven't told me what kind of appointment you've accepted. Whatever it is, you can thank my influence for it. They know that I wouldn't employ a man who isn't up to the mark."

"I thank you for your appreciation," Macbean said, for it was the first kindly word that he had ever received from the millionaire during all the time he had been in his service.

"Oh, I don't mean that you are any better than five hundred others in my employ," the other returned. "I've got a hundred shop-managers who would serve me equally well at half the wages I pay you. I've all along considered that you don't earn what you get."

"In that case, then, I am very pleased to be able to relieve you of my services, and to take them where they will be at last appreciated."

"Do you mean to be insolent?"

"I have no such intention," replied Macbean, still quite cool, although his hands were trembling with suppressed anger. "The Italian Government will pay me well for my work, and will not hurl insults at me on every possible occasion and before every visitor. I have been your servant, Mr Morgan-Mason, your very humble servant, but after despatching this telegram I shall, I am glad to inform you, no longer be yours to command."

"The Italian Government!" exclaimed the millionaire, utterly surprised.

"In what department are you to be employed?"

"In the Ministry of War."

"What!--in the office of that man we saw regarding the Abyssinian contracts?--Morini his name was, wasn't it?"

"No. In the office of the Under-Secretary, Borselli."

"I suppose you made it right with them when I took you with me to Rome-- made good use of your ability to speak the lingo--eh?"

"I had then no intention of entering the Italian service," was his reply. "The offer has come to me quite spontaneously."

Morgan-Mason was silent, twisting his gla.s.s before him and thinking deeply. The name Borselli recalled something--an ugly affair that he would have fain forgotten.

"I thought you had secured an appointment in one of the English Government offices," he said at last, with a sudden change of tactics.

"Why go abroad? Why not remain with me? I'll give you an increase of fifty pounds a year. You know my ways, and I hate strangers about me."

"I much regret that I cannot accept your offer," replied George. "I have already accepted the appointment, which is at a salary very considerably in advance of that you have been paying me."

"But I'll pay you the same as they offer. You are better off in England. How much do they intend to give you?"

"I am too fond of Italy to refuse a chance of going out there," Macbean replied. "I spent some years in Pisa in my youth, and have always longed to return and live in the warmth and sunshine."