He led the way up-stairs, across another and a loftier hall with an imitation groined ceiling, and into a large room at the back of the house, which by virtue of a case of morocco bound books, clearly not often disturbed, was the library. The young man flung himself into a chair behind an immense flat-topped desk and waved his hand to Evan with an air that seemed to say: "Now tell me the worst!" Between the two, Evan's sympathies were with the father.

He was not invited to sit. He told his story briefly, making out the best case that he could for the old man. The latter was not insensible to the favour. His little eyes twinkled. The young man became gloomier and gloomier as the story progressed.

"We shall hear more of this!" he said tragically.

The old man pished and pshawed. "I offered him a steady job," he said, "to go round with me. But his notions are too grand."

"Why, that would be a very suitable arrangement," his son said pompously. "How much do you want?" he asked of Evan.

"Fifty dollars a week."

"That's ridiculous!" young Deaves said loftily. "I'll give you twenty-five."

The scene of down-stairs was continued, with this difference that the son was not so nave as the father. Evan kept up his end with firmness and good-humour. After all there was some fun in contending with such pa.s.sionate bargainers, and he saw that for some reason the son was more anxious to get hold of him than the father. They finally compromised on forty dollars a week, provided Evan's references were satisfactory.

Simeon Deaves was scandalised.

"It's too much! too much!" he repeated. "It will turn his head completely!"

CHAPTER III

SNOOPING

Young Deaves (his father addressed him as George) pa.s.sed out through a small door on the left presumably to telephone to Evan's references.

His father followed him, still protesting tearfully that the salary he purposed paying Evan would ruin them both. Evan was left standing in the middle of the room. Before he had time to take a further survey of his surroundings the door from the hall was softly opened, and a smug, pale young man in a sober suit sidled into the room, a servant. Evan learned later that "Second man" was his official t.i.tle. "Spy" was writ large on him. The house seemed to be swarming with them. This fellow had undoubtedly been listening at the door.

"Good G.o.d! who would be rich!" thought Evan.

The servant with a sly, meaning look in Evan's direction went to a console at the left of the room, and affected to busy himself in arranging the objects upon it. In reality his long ears were stretched for sounds coming through the little door. Having satisfied himself that the Deaves' were good for several minutes in there, he came towards Evan with an ingratiating leer.

"Nice day," he said.

Evan's impulse was to call the fellow down, but he reflected that if he was to become an inmate of the house, it would be just as well for his own protection to learn what this snooping and eavesdropping signified.

"Fine," he said non-committally.

"Are you going to be one of us?"

"I don't know yet."

"It's a rummy joint."

"So I gather," said Evan dryly.

"Have you seen the Missus yet?"

"No."

The lackey cast up his eyes and whistled softly. "Oh boy! You've got something to see!"

This was Evan's first experience of the below-stairs point of view. It was a revelation.

"Were you planted here?" the servant asked with a mysterious air.

"What do you mean?" asked Evan.

The other quickly turned it off. "Oh nothing." He glanced towards the little door. "When you work for a bunch like this you don't feel like you owed them anything. It's every man for himself."

"I suppose so," said Evan.

"But there's a square bunch down-stairs. Come down to the butler's room when you can and get acquainted."

"Thanks."

"Take it from me you won't find it such a bad house if you stand in with the crowd down-stairs. There's money to be made on the side if you're smart enough."

"How?" asked Evan.

The second man winked at him knowingly. "Let's you and I get better acquainted before we get confidential."

"Sure," said Evan. "I see you're a wise guy."

"Wise!" said the other. "Solomon wasn't one two three with me."

"What do they call you?"

"Alfred. I'll make you acquainted with the bunch down-stairs. The women----" He suddenly broke off, and stiffened into the blank-faced, deferential servant.

Young Deaves and old Deaves returned through the little door.

"If you please, sir," said Alfred quickly, "Mr. Hilton sent me to ask what wines you would have for dinner."

"I'm busy!" snapped George Deaves. "Tell Hilton when I want wine I'll let him know."

"Yes, sir, very good, sir." The rubber-shod one wafted out of the room, shutting the door behind him as softly as a flower closes.

George Deaves looked sharply to see that it was closed, then looked as sharply at Evan.

"Was he talking to you?" he demanded.

Evan quickly decided that the only safe hand to play in this strange house was a lone hand; he would take no one into his confidence.

"Nothing in particular," he said.

"Why don't you fire him, George?" asked his father.

The younger man shrugged wearily. "What's the use? The next one would be no better." He turned his attention to Evan. "Your references were satisfactory," he said. "You may consider yourself engaged.

Thirty-five dollars was the sum we agreed on, I believe."