“Certingly not, sir!” bowed Mr. Brimberly.

“And I’m neither mad, Brimberly, nor drunk, only—speaking colloquially—I’m ‘on to’ myself at last. If my father had only left me fewer millions, I might have been quite a hard-working, useful member of society, for there’s good in me, Brimberly. I am occasionally aware of quite noble impulses, but they need some object to bring ‘em out. An object—hum!” Here Mr. Ravenslee put away the revolver. “An object to work for, live for, be worthy of!” Here he fell to frowning into the fire again and stared thus so long that at last Mr. Brimberly felt impelled to say:

“A hobject, of course, sir! A hobject—certingly, sir!” But here he started and turned to stare toward the windows as from the darkness beyond two voices were uplifted in song; two voices these which sang the same tune and words but in two different keys, uncertain voices, now shooting up into heights, now dropping into unplumbable deeps, two shaky voices whose inconsequent quaverings suggested four legs in much the same condition.

“Brimberly,” sighed his master, “what doleful wretches have we here?”

“Why, sir, I—I rather fancy it’s William and James—the footmen, sir,” answered Mr. Brimberly between bristling whiskers. “Hexcuse me, sir—I’ll go and speak to ‘em, sir—”

“Oh, pray don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Brimberly; sit down and hearken! These sad sounds are inspired by deep potations—beer, I fancy. Be seated, Mr. Brimberly.”

Mr. Brimberly obeyed, and being much agitated dropped his cigar and grovelled for it, and it was to be noted thereafter that as the singers drew nearer, he shuffled on his chair with whiskers violently a-twitch, while his eyes goggled more and his domelike brow grew ever moister. But on came the singing footmen and passed full-tongued, wailing out each word with due effect, thus:

“—my sweet ‘eart’s—me mother The best—the dearest—of—’em all.”

“Hum!” murmured Young R., “I admire the sentiment, Brimberly, but the execution leaves something to be desired, perhaps—”

“If you’ll only let me go out to ‘em, sir!” groaned Mr. Brimberly, mopping himself with a very large, exceeding white handkerchief, “if you honly will, sir!”

“No, Brimberly, no—it would only distress you, besides—hark! their song is ended, and rather abruptly—I rather fancy they have fallen down the terrace steps.”

“And I ‘opes,” murmured Mr. Brimberly fervently, “I do ‘ope as they’ve broke their necks!”

“Of course I ought to have gone out and switched on the lights for them,” sighed Young R, “but then, you see, I thought they were safe in bed, Brimberly!”

“Why, sir,” said Mr. Brimberly, mopping furiously, “I—I ventured to give ‘em a hour’s leave of habsence, sir; I ventured so to do, sir, because, sir—”

“Because you are of rather a venturesome nature, aren’t you, Brimberly?”

“No offence, sir, I ‘ope?”

“None at all, Mr. Brimberly—pray calm yourself and—er—take a little brandy.”

“Sir?”

“Your glass is under the chair yonder, or is it your friend’s?”

Mr. Brimberly goggled toward Mr. Stevens’ betraying glass, picked it up, and sat staring at it in vague and dreamy fashion until, rousing at his master’s second bidding, he proceeded to mix brandy and soda, his gaze still profoundly abstracted and his whiskers drooping with an abnormal meekness.

At this juncture a knock sounded at the door, and a chauffeur appeared, looking very smart in his elegant livery; a thick-set man, mightily deep of chest, whose wide shoulders seemed to fill the doorway, and whose long, gorilla-like arms ended in two powerful hands; his jaw was squarely huge, his nose broad and thick, but beneath his beetling brows blinked two of the mildest blue eyes in the world.

“What is it, Joe?”

“And what time will ye be wantin’ the car in the mornin’, sir?” he enquired.

“The morning, Joe? Who can say what may happen between now and then?”

“Shall I have her round at eleven, sir, or—”

“Eleven will do as well as any other time—let it go at that.”

“You was to see your broker, Mr. Anderson, in the morning over them steamship shares, sir.”

“Shares, Joe, are a vanity; all is vanity—they weary me. Mr. Brimberly yawns, and you look sleepy—good night, Joe; pleasant dreams.”

“Good night, sir!” and touching his right eyebrow, Joe went out, closing the door behind him.

“And now,” said Mr. Ravenslee, puffing languidly at his cigar, “referring to the necessary object, there is a chance that it may be found—even yet, Mr. Brimberly!”

“Object, sir,” murmured Mr. Brimberly, “found, sir—to be sure, sir.”

“Yes; I intend you shall find it for me, Brimberly.”

Mr. Brimberly’s abstraction gave place to sudden amaze.

“Find it—wot, me, sir? Hexcuse me, sir, but did you say—” Mr. Brimberly actually gaped!

“You, Brimberly, of course!”

“But—but wot kind of a hobject—and where, sir?”

“Really,” sighed Young R., “these are quite fool questions for one of your hard-headed common sense! If I knew exactly ‘what’ and ‘where’, I’d go and find it myself—at least, I might!”

“But—’ow in the world, sir—begging your parding I’m sure, but ‘ow am I to go a-finding hobjex as I’ve never seen nor ‘eard of?”

“Brimberly, I pass! But if you manage it in—say a week, I’ll double your wages and give you a—er—a bonus into the bargain; think it over.”

“I—I will, sir—indeed, sir!”

“Very well; you may go.”

“Certingly, sir.” Mr. Brimberly bowed and crossed to the door but, being there, paused. “Double me wages I think it were, sir, and a bonus? Very ‘andsome, very ‘andsome indeed, sir—thank you, sir.” Saying which, Mr. Brimberly bowed himself out, but immediately bowed himself in again.

“Sir,” said he, “if you could give me some hidea, sir—”

“Some what?”

“A few ‘ints, sir, as to the nature of said hobject—whether animal, mineral, or nooter, sir?”

“Well—perhaps ‘animal’ might be the more interesting.”

“Now—as to gender, sir—masculine shall we say, or shall we make it feminine?”

“Oh—either will do! And yet, since you offer so wide a selection, perhaps—er—feminine—?”

“Very good, sir!”

“And you’d better make it singular number, Brimberly.”

“Certingly, sir, much obliged, sir! Will you be wanting me again, sir?”

“Not again, Brimberly.”

“Then good night, sir—thank you, sir!” And Mr. Brimberly went softly forth and closed the door noiselessly behind him.

Being alone, Mr. Ravenslee switched off the lights and sat in the fire-glow.

“Feminine gender, singular number, objective case, governed by the verb—to love—I wonder!”

And he laughed a little bitterly (and very youthfully) as he stared down into the dying fire.

CHAPTER III

HOW GEOFFREY RAVENSLEE WENT SEEKING AN OBJECT

A clock in the hall without struck midnight, but Mr. Ravenslee sat there long after the silvery chime had died away, his chin sunk upon his broad chest, his sombre eyes staring blindly at the fading embers, lost in profound and gloomy meditation. But, all at once, he started and glanced swiftly around toward a certain window, the curtains of which were only partly drawn, and his lounging attitude changed instantly to one of watchful alertness.

As he sat thus, broad shoulders stooped, feet drawn up—poised for swift action, he beheld a light that flashed here and there, that vanished and came again, hovering up and down and to and fro outside the window; wherefore he reached out a long arm in the gloom and silently opened a certain drawer in the escritoire.

Came a soft click, a faint creak, and a breath of cool, fragrant air as the window was cautiously opened, and a shapeless something climbed through, while Mr. Ravenslee sat motionless—waiting.

The flashing light winked again, a small, bright disc that hovered uncertainly and finally steadied upon the carved cabinet in the corner, and the Something crept stealthily thither. A long-drawn, breathless minute and then—the room was flooded with brilliant light, and a figure, kneeling before the cabinet, uttered a strangled cry and leapt up, only to recoil before Mr. Ravenslee’s levelled revolver.

A pallid-faced, willowy lad, this, of perhaps seventeen, who, sinking to his knees, threw up an arm across his face, then raised both hands above his head.

“Ah, don’t shoot, mister!” he gasped. “Oh, don’t shoot—I got me hands up!”

“Stand up!” said Ravenslee grimly, “up with you and shutter that window—you may have friends outside, and I’m taking no chances! Quick—shutter that window, I say.”

The lad struggled to his feet and, crossing to the window, fumbled the shutter into place, his ghastly face turning and turning toward the revolver that glittered in such deadly fashion in Mr. Ravenslee’s steady hand. At length, the shutters barred, the boy turned, and moistening dry lips, spoke hoarsely and with apparent effort.

“Oh, mister—don’t go for to—croak a guy as—as ain’t done nothing!”

“You broke into my house!”

“But I—haven’t took nothin’!”

“Because I happened to catch you!”

“But—but—oh, sir,” stammered the boy, taking off his cap and fumbling with it while he stared wide-eyed at the threatening revolver, “I—I ain’t a real thief—cross me heart and hope to die, I ain’t! Don’t croak me, sir!”

“But why in the world not?” enquired Mr. Ravenslee. “Alone and unaided I have captured a desperate criminal, a bloodthirsty villain—caught him in the very act of burgling a cabinet where I keep my cigars of price—and Mr. Brimberly’s, of course! Consequently to—er—croak you is my privilege as a citizen; it’s all quite just and proper—really, I ought to croak you, you know.”

“I—ain’t desprit, mister,” the boy pleaded, “I ain’t a reg’lar crook; dis is me first try-out—honest it is!”