The House in Lordship Lane by A.E.W. Mason

WHEN the unobtrusive Thompson slid into Mr. Ricardo's bedroom the next morning with his morning tea, carried over land through how many countries, lest one tang of the sea should tincture its fragrance, he carried in upon the tray a note from Hanaud. Mr. Ricardo was grateful. No man was less hail-fellow-well-met in the morning, than he. Rosy-cheeked people who hardly knocked before they bustled in, nephews and nieces and such-like modern importunities, were not allowed. The act of getting up was a slow and quiet ritual, to be conducted without words. Not until he was afoot and dressed would he consider with what rocks and stones and trees he was to be rolled round in earth's diurnal course.

It was, therefore, with a desire to do what he could for his friend that he opened his note. Mr. Ricardo read that Hanaud had put off his visit to the unpronounceable city owing to the persistence of a surprising idea. He himself must see this Septimus Crottle. He had no authority by which he could claim an interview. He was of no account in this Horbury affair. It was even possible that Septimus had never heard the name of Hanaud, for nothing was more curious than the smallness of the orbits within which fame was circumscribed. As Mr. Ricardo had himself observed, no one could answer what Mr. Gladstone had said in 1884. Well, then, it would be desirable that Hanaud should have an introduction to Septimus Crottle, and who could give it but that excellent Mister the Captain Mordaunt, who, one might think--No? Yes?--had a passion for introducing strangers to Septimus Crottle. Monsieur Hanaud threw himself at the feet of his dear friend. 'I understand, the note concluded, that Septimus Crottle is difficult, but as you know I am at my best with difficult people. You have seen me at work. I am inspired, I soar.' and he signed in his usual style as a peer of the realm.