The double cellars of Gratham House had, in their time, been one of the sights of London.

When Henry Gratham lay under eight feet of Congo earth (he was killed by an elephant whilst on a hunting trip) his executors had been singularly fortunate in finding an immediate purchaser.

Rumour had it that Kara, who was no lover of wine, had bricked up the cellars, and their very existence passed into domestic legendary.
The door was opened by a well-dressed and deferential man-servant and T.X.was ushered into the hall.

A fire burnt cheerily in a bronze grate and T.X.had a glimpse of a big oil painting of Kara above the marble mantle-piece.
"Mr.Kara is very busy, sir," said the man.
"Just take in my card," said T.X.

"I think he may care to see me." The man bowed, produced from some mysterious corner a silver salver and glided upstairs in that manner which well-trained servants have, a manner which seems to call for no bodily effort.