Mr. Clarkson too was greatly intrigue that night.  He yawned about the dressing-room till an unusually late hour, for Lord Talgarth generally retired to rest between ten and half-past.  To-night, however, it was twenty minutes to twelve before the man stood up suddenly from the sofa at the sound of a vibration in the passage outside.  The old man came in briskly, bearing a bundle of papers in one hand and a bed-candle in the other, with the same twinkle of good temper in his eyes that he had carried all the evening.

“Give me the dispatch-box under the sofa,” he said; “the one in the leather case.”

This was done and the papers were laid in it, carefully, on the top.  Mr. Clarkson noticed that they had a legal appearance, were long-shaped and inscribed in stiff lettering.  Then the dispatch-box was reclosed and set on the writing-table which my lord used sometimes when he was unwell.

“Remind me to send for Mr. Manners to-morrow,” he said. (This was the solicitor.)

* * * * *

Getting ready for bed that evening was almost of a sensational nature, and Mr. Clarkson had to keep all his wits about him to respond with sufficient agility to the sallies of his master.  Usually it was all a very somber ceremony, with a good deal of groaning and snarling in asides.  But to-night it was as cheerful as possible.

The mysteries of it all are too great for me to attempt to pierce them; but it is really incredible what a number of processes are necessary before an oldish man, who is something of a buck and something of an invalid, and altogether self-centered, is able to lay him down to rest.  There are strange doses to be prepared and drunk, strange manipulations to be performed and very particular little ceremonies to be observed, each in its proper place.  Each to-night was accompanied by some genial comment:  the senna-pod distillation, that had been soaking since seven p.m. in hot water, was drunk almost with the air of a toast; the massaging of the ankles and toes (an exercise invented entirely by Lord Talgarth himself) might have been almost in preparation for a dance.

He stood up at last, an erect, stoutish figure, in quilted dressing-gown and pyjamas, before the fire, as his man put on his slippers for him, for the little procession into the next room.

“I think I’m better to-night, Clarkson,” he said.

“Your lordship seems very well indeed, my lord,” murmured that diplomat on the hearth-rug.

“How old do you think I am, Clarkson?”

Clarkson knew perfectly well, but it was better to make a deprecatory confused noise.

“Ah! well, we needn’t reckon by years ...  I feel young enough,” observed the stately figure before the fire.

* * * * *