The Definite Object. Jeffery Farnol

to do eighty miles or so, and 'opes to sleep at one of 'is clubs. I say 'e 'opes an' expects so to do!"

      "Yes," nodded Mr. Stevens, "certainly, but what do you mean?"

      "Sir," sighed Mr. Brimberly, "if you'd been forced by stern dooty to sit be'ind Young Har in a fast automobile as I 'ave, you'd know what I mean. Reckless? Speed? Well, there!" and Mr. Brimberly lifted hands and eyes and shook his head until his whiskers vibrated with horror.

      "Then you're pretty sure," said Mr. Stevens, settling luxurious boots upon a cushioned chair, "you're pretty sure he won't come bobbing up when least expected?"

      "Pretty sure!" nodded Mr. Brimberly. "You see, this nooest car is the very latest thing in racing cars—cost a fortune, consequently it's bound to break down—these here expensive cars always do, believe me!"

      "Why, then," said Mr. Stevens, helping himself to one of Mr. Brimberly's master's cigars, "I say let joy and 'armony be unconfined! How about Jenkins and 'is banjer?"

      "I'll call 'im up immediate!" nodded Mr. Brimberly, rising. "Mr. Jenkins is a true hartist, equally facetious and soulful, sir!"

      So saying, Mr. Brimberly arose and crossed toward the telephone. But scarcely had he taken three steps when he paused suddenly and stood rigid and motionless, his staring gaze fixed upon the nearest window; for from the shadowy world beyond came a sound, faint as yet and far away, but a sound there was no mistaking—the dismal tooting of an automobile horn.

      "'Eavens an' earth!" exclaimed Mr. Brimberly, and crossing to the window he peered out. Once again the horn was heard, but very much nearer now, and louder, whereupon Mr. Brimberly turned, almost hastily, and his visitor rose hurriedly.

      "It's very annoying, Mr. Stevens," said he, "but can I trouble you to—to step—er—down—stairs—with the glasses? It's 'ighly mortifying, but may I ask you to—er—step a little lively, Mr. Stevens?"

      Without a word, Mr. Stevens caught up the tray from the piano and glided away on his toe-points; whereupon Mr. Brimberly (being alone) became astonishingly agile and nimble all at once, diving down to straighten a rug here and there, rearranging chairs and tables; he even opened the window and hurled two half-smoked cigars far out into the night; and his eye was as calm, his brow as placid, his cheek as rosy as ever, only his whiskers—those snowy, telltale whiskers, quivered spasmodically, very much as though endeavouring to do the manifestly impossible and flutter away with Mr. Brimberly altogether; yes, it was all in his whiskers.

      Thus did Mr. Brimberly bustle softly to and fro until he paused, all at once, arrested by the sound of a slow, firm step near by. Then Mr. Brimberly coughed, smoothed his winglike whiskers, and—pulled down his waistcoat for the third time. And lo! even as he did so, the door opened, and the hero of this history stood upon the threshold.

CHAPTER II

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OF A MOURNFUL MILLIONAIRE WHO LACKED AN OBJECT

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      Geoffrey Ravenslee was tall and pale and very languid, so languid indeed that the automobile coat he bore across his arm slipped to the floor ere Mr. Brimberly could take it, after which he shed his cap and goggles and dropped them, drew off his gauntlets and dropped them and, crossing to his favourite lounge chair, dropped himself into it, and lay there staring into the fire.

      "Ah, Brimberly," he sighed gently, "making a night of it?"

      "Why, sir," bowed his butler, "indeed, sir—to tell the truth, sir—"

      "You needn't, Brimberly. Excellent cigars you smoke—judging from the smell. May I have one?"

      "Sir," said Brimberly, his whiskers slightly agitated, "cigars, sir?"

      "In the cabinet, I think," and Mr. Ravenslee motioned feebly with one white hand towards the tall, carved cabinet in an adjacent corner.

      Mr. Brimberly coughed softly behind plump fingers.

      "The—the key, sir?" he suggested.

      "Oh, not at all necessary, Brimberly; the lock is faulty, you know."

      "Sir?" said Brimberly, soothing a twitching whisker.

      "If you are familiar with the life of the Fourteenth Louis, Brimberly, you will remember that the Grand Monarch hated to be kept waiting—so do I. A cigar—in the cabinet yonder."

      With his whiskers in a high state of agitation, Mr. Brimberly laid by the garments he held clutched in one arm and coming to the cabinet, opened it, and taking thence a box of cigars, very much at random, came back, carrying it rather as though it were a box of highly dangerous explosives, and setting it at his master's elbow, struck a match.

      As Mr. Brimberly watched his master select and light his cigar, it chanced that Young R. raised his eyes and looked at him, and to be sure those eyes were surprisingly piercing and quick for one so very languid. Indeed, Mr. Brimberly seemed to think so, for he coughed again, faint and discreetly, behind his hand, while his whiskers quivered slightly, though perceptibly.

      "You're 'ome quite—quite unexpected, sir!"

      "Brimberly, I'm afraid I am, but I hope I don't intrude?"

      "Intrude, sir!" repeated Mr. Brimberly. "Oh, very facetious, sir, very facetious indeed!" and he laughed, deferentially and soft.

      "I blew the horn, but I see he left his hat behind him!" sighed Young R., nodding languidly toward the headgear of Mr. Stevens, which had fallen beneath a chair and thus escaped notice.

      "Why, I—indeed, sir," said Mr. Brimberly, stooping to make a fierce clutch at it, "I took the liberty of showing a friend of mine your—your picters, sir—no offence, I 'ope, sir?"

      "Friend?" murmured his master.

      "Name of Stevens, sir, valet to Lord Barberton—a most sooperior person indeed, sir!"

      "Barberton? I don't agree with you, Brimberly."

      "Stevens, sir!"

      "Ah! And you showed him my—pictures, did you?"

      "Yes, sir, I did take that liberty—no offence, sir, I—"

      "Hum! Did he like 'em?"

      "Like them, sir! 'E were fair overpowered, sir! Brandy and soda, sir?"

      "Thanks! Did he like that, too?"

      "Why, sir—I—indeed—"

      "Oh, never mind—to-night is an occasion, anyway—just a splash of soda! Yes, Brimberly, when the clocks strike midnight I shall be thirty-five years old—"

      "Indeed, sir!" exclaimed Brimberly, clasping his plump hands softly and bowing, "then allow me to wish you many, many 'appy returns, sir, with continued 'ealth, wealth, and all 'appiness, sir!"

      "Happiness?" repeated Young R., and smiled quite bitterly, as only the truly young can smile. "Happiness!" said he again, "thank you, Brimberly—now take your friend his hat, and have the extreme goodness to make up the fire for me. I love a fire, as you know, but especially when I am mournful. And pray—hurry, Brimberly!"

      Forthwith Mr. Brimberly bowed and bustled out, but very soon bustled in again; and now, as he stooped, menial-like, to ply the coal tongs, though his domelike brow preserved all its wonted serenity, no words could possibly express all the mute rebellion of those eloquent whiskers.

      "Hanything more, sir?" he enquired, as he rose from his knees.

      "Why, yes," said Young R., glancing up at him, and beneath the quizzical look in those sleepy grey eyes, Mr. Brimberly's whiskers wilted slightly. "You're getting a trifle