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"The General Manager of the Great Southern Railway presents his compliments to Lord Stranleigh of Wychwood, and will be pleased to meet his lordship, Sir Phillip Sanderson, and Mr. Mackeller at this office on Friday morning, November 22nd, at 9.30." "H—m!" ejaculated Lord Stranleigh, when he read this note. "Curt, but courteous. What a beastly hour he's set! That's what comes of mixing with business men whose time is money. Nine-thirty; how can I manage it? Ah, well it's first blood to me, anyhow. I'll send a chortling telegram to Mackeller, and let him know he was wrong in supposing Preston wouldn't see us. Nine-thirty! Bah! I must walk there in my sleep."

The first impression Lord Stranleigh formed of Mr. Preston was that he seemed glacial, rather than adamantine. His thin, tightly-compressed lips had a frost-bitten look. His keen eyes were icy, g^littering forth under heavy eyebrows that gave the appearance of a perpetual frown on his forehead. He seldom spoke, but when he did his voice was cold and unsympathetic. His presence