Mr. Faulks went to the door, protesting and muttering to himself.

“Stay! one word more!  It is wrong of me, perhaps, to hint that your zeal requires any stimulus, Mr. Faulks.”

“Hardly, I hope.  I have endeavoured for the last five-and-thirty years—­”

“Yes, yes, we know all about that.  But I have been told that you looked for some special recognition of your services—­a decoration, the Order of the Bath—­from the last Administration.  Now, unless you bestir yourself, don’t expect anything of the kind from us.”

“I do not pretend to say that I have earned the favour of my Sovereign; but in any case it would depend upon her most gracious Majesty whether—­”

“Don’t make any mistake about it.  You can only get the Bath through the recommendation of your immediate superiors.  There’s stimulus, if you want it.  But don’t let me detain you any more.”

Mr. Faulks went slowly downstairs, and still more slowly resumed his out-of-door frock-coat; he took up his hat and stick in the same deliberate fashion, and started at a snail’s pace for round the corner.

He drawled and dawdled through the business, which five minutes’ sharp talk could have ended, and it was nearly lunch-time before he returned to his chief.

“Well, you might have been to the Crimea and back!” said Sir Humphrey, impatiently.

“Matters of such moment are not to be disposed of out of hand.  Haste is certain to produce dangerous confusion, and it has been my unvaried experience during five-and-thirty years—­”

“Which it has taken you to find the shortest way next door.  But there! let us get on with our work.  Now, about this expedition to Kertch?”

And Sir Humphrey proceeded to discuss and dispose of great questions of supply in a prompt, off-hand way that both silenced and terrified Mr. Faulks.

CHAPTER V.

MR. FAULKS TALKS.

Mr. Faulks was rather fond of good living, and, as a rule, he never allowed official cares to interfere with his lunch, a meal brought in on a tray from an eating-house in the Strand.  To make a proper selection from the bill of fare sent in every morning was a weighty matter, taking precedence over any other work, however pressing.

But to-day he scarcely enjoyed the haricot of lamb with new potatoes and young peas that he found waiting, and slightly cold, when he went downstairs to his own room.

“For two pins I’d take my retirement; I can claim it; where would they be then?”

This estimable personage shared with thousands the strange superstition that the world cannot do without them.

“This cook is falling off most terribly.  The lamb is uneatable, the potatoes are waxy, and the peas like pills.  Ugh!  I never made a worse lunch!”

A large cigar and the perusal of the long-neglected Times did not pacify him much, and he was still fretting and fuming when his messenger brought in a three-cornered note and asked if there was any reply.