An hour later he stood in the office of the Snake, courteously inquiring for Mr. Snawley-Grubbs. Apparently he had come on horseback, for he held a riding-whip in his hand,—the very whip Errington had left with him the previous day. The inky, dirty, towzle-headed boy who presided in solitary grandeur over the Snake's dingy premises, stared at him inquiringly,—visitors of his distinguished appearance and manner being rather uncommon. Those who usually had business with the great Grubbs were of a different type altogether,—some of them discarded valets or footmen, who came to gain half a crown or five shillings by offering information as to the doings of their late masters and mistresses,—shabby "supers" from the theatres, who had secured the last bit of scandal concerning some celebrated stage or professional "beauty"—sporting men and turf gamblers of the lowest class,— unsuccessful dramatists and small verse writers—these, with now and then a few "ladies"—ladies of the bar-room, ballet, and demi-monde, were the sort, of persons who daily sought private converse with Grubbs—and Beau Lovelace, with his massive head, fine muscular figure, keen eyes, and self-assertive mien, was quite a novel specimen of manhood for the wondering observation of the office-boy, who scrambled off his high chair with haste and something of respect as he said—
"What name, sir, please?"
"Beaufort Lovelace," said the gentleman, with a bland smile. "Here is my card. Ask Mr. Grubbs whether he can see me for a few minutes. If he is engaged—editors generally are engaged—tell him I'll wait."
The boy went off in a greater hurry than ever. The name of Lovelace was quite familiar to him—he knew him, not as a distinguished novelist, but as "'im who makes such a precious lot of money." And he was breathless with excitement; when he reached the small editorial chamber at the top of a dark, narrow flight of stairs, wherein sat the autocratic Snawley, smiling suavely over a heap of letters and disordered MSS. He glanced at the card which his ink-smeared attendant presented him.
"Ah, indeed!" he said condescendingly. "Lovelace—Lovelace? Oh yes—I suppose it must be the novelist of that name—yes!—show him up."
Shown up he was accordingly. He entered the room with a firm tread, and closed the door behind him!
"How do you do, my dear sir!" exclaimed Grubbs warmly. "You are well known to me by reputation! I am charmed—delighted to make the personal acquaintance of one who is—yes—let me say, who is a brother in literature! Sit down, I beg of you!"
And he waved his hand towards a chair, thereby displaying the great rings that glittered on his podgy fingers.
Beau, however, did not seat himself—he only smiled very coldly and contemptuously.
"We can discuss the fraternal nature of our relationship afterwards," he said satirically, "Business first. Pray, sir,"—here he drew from his pocket the last number of the Snake—"are you the writer of this paragraph?"