were toil-stained and his nails very black. He carried a cardboard box. He seemed to be extremely nervous, and this nervousness palpably increased when the impudent page, who was standing in the lobby, giggled on hearing his inquiry.
"He's second floor," said the youth. "Are you from Hot-Stuff Jarvis?"
"That's right, lad," replied the visitor, speaking with a marked Manchester accent; "from Mr. Jarvis.
"And are you really going up?" inquired the boy with mock solicitude.
"I'm going up right enough. That's what I'm here for."
"Shut up, Chivers," snapped the hall porter. "Ring the bell." He glanced at the cobbler. "Second floor," he said, tersely, and resumed his study of a newspaper which he had been reading.
The representative of Mr. Jarvis was carried up to the second floor and the lift man, having indicated at which door he should knock, descended again. The cobbler's nervousness thereupon became more marked than ever, so that a waiter, seeing him looking helplessly from door to door, took pity on him and inquired for whom he was searching.
"His excellency," was the reply; "but I'm hanged if I can remember the number or how to pronounce his name."
The waiter glanced at him oddly. "Ormûz
