mansion and an old Border fortress; its centre part was very high in the roof, and had turrets, with outer stairs to them, at the corners; the parapets were embattled, and in the turrets were arrow-slits.  But romantic as the place was, there was nothing gloomy about it, and as I passed to the front, between the grey walls and a sunk balustered garden that lay at the foot of a terrace, I heard through the open windows of one brilliantly lighted room the click of billiard balls and the sound of men’s light-hearted laughter, and through another the notes of a piano.

There was a grand butler man met me at the hall door, and looked sourly at me as I leaned my bicycle against one of the pillars and made up to him.  He was sourer still when I asked to see his master, and he shook his head at me, looking me up and down as if I were some undesirable.

“You can’t see Sir Gilbert at this time of the evening,” said he.  “What do you want?”

“Will you tell Sir Gilbert that Mr. Moneylaws, clerk to Mr. Lindsey, solicitor, wishes to see him on important business?” I answered, looking him hard in the face.  “I think he’ll be quick to see me when you give him that message.”

He stared and growled at me a second or two before he went off with an ill grace, leaving me on the steps.  But, as I had expected, he was back almost at once, and beckoning me to enter and follow him.  And follow him I did, past more flunkeys who stared at me as if I had come to steal the silver, and through soft-carpeted passages, to a room into which he led me with small politeness.

“You’re to sit down and wait,” he said gruffly.  “Sir Gilbert will attend to you presently.”

He closed the door on me, and I sat down and looked around.  I was in a small room that was filled with books from floor to ceiling—­big books and little, in fine leather bindings, and the gilt of their letterings and labels shining in the rays of a tall lamp that stood on a big desk in the centre.  It was a fine room that, with everything luxurious in the way of furnishing and appointments; you could have sunk your feet in the warmth of the carpets and rugs, and there were things in it for comfort and convenience that I had never heard tell of.  I had never been in a rich man’s house before, and the grandeur of it, and the idea that it gave one of wealth, made me feel that there’s a vast gulf fixed between them that have and them that have not.  And in the middle of these philosophies the door suddenly opened, and in walked Sir Gilbert Carstairs, and I stood up and made my politest bow to him.  He nodded affably enough, and he laughed as he nodded.

“Oh!” said he.  “Mr. Moneylaws!  I’ve seen you before—­at that inquest the other day, I think.  Didn’t I?”

“That is so, Sir Gilbert,” I answered.  “I was there, with Mr. Lindsey.”

“Why, of course, and you gave evidence,” he said.  “I remember.  Well, and what did you want to see me about, Mr. Moneylaws?  Will you smoke a cigar?” he went on, picking up a box from the table and holding it out to me.  “Help yourself.”