“It would prevent him speaking in the House to-night.  The Navy Increase Bill,” he added, gloomily.  “It is a Government measure, and Sir Andrew speaks for it.  And so great is his influence and so large his following that if he does”—­the gentleman laughed ruefully—­“if he does, it will go through.  Now, had I the spirit of our ancestors,” he exclaimed, “I would bring chloroform from the nearest chemist’s and drug him in that chair.  I would tumble his unconscious form into a hansom-cab, and hold him prisoner until daylight.  If I did, I would save the British taxpayer the cost of five more battleships, many millions of pounds.”

The gentleman again turned, and surveyed the baronet with freshened interest.  The honorary member of the Grill, whose accent already had betrayed him as an American, laughed softly.

“To look at him now,” he said, “one would not guess he was deeply concerned with the affairs of state.”

The others nodded silently.

“He has not lifted his eyes from that book since we first entered,” added the youngest member.  “He surely cannot mean to speak to-night.”

“Oh, yes, he will speak,” muttered the one with the black pearl, moodily.  “During these last hours of the session the House sits late, but when the Navy bill comes up on its third reading he will be in his place—­and he will pass it.”

The fourth member, a stout and florid gentleman of a somewhat sporting appearance, in a short smoking-jacket and black tie, sighed enviously.

“Fancy one of us being as cool as that, if he knew he had to stand up within an hour and rattle off a speech in Parliament.  I’d be in a devil of a funk myself.  And yet he is as keen over that book he’s reading as though he had nothing before him until bedtime.”

“Yes, see how eager he is,” whispered the youngest member.  “He does not lift his eyes even now when he cuts the pages.  It is probably an Admiralty Report, or some other weighty work of statistics which bears upon his speech.”

The gentleman with the black pearl laughed morosely.

“The weighty work in which the eminent statesman is so deeply engrossed,” he said, “is called ‘The Great Rand Robbery.’  It is a detective novel for sale at all bookstalls.”

The American raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

“’The Great Rand Robbery’?” he repeated, incredulously.  “What an odd taste!”

“It is not a taste, it is his vice,” returned the gentleman with the pearl stud.  “It is his one dissipation.  He is noted for it.  You, as a stranger, could hardly be expected to know of this idiosyncrasy.  Mr. Gladstone sought relaxation in the Greek poets, Sir Andrew finds his in Gaboriau.  Since I have been a member of Parliament, I have never seen him in the library without a shilling shocker in his hands.  He brings them even into the sacred precincts of the House, and from the Government benches reads them concealed inside his hat.  Once started