Mellowkent hesitated and yielded; the importance of the visitor’s mission was probably illusory, but he had never met anyone with the name Caiaphas before. It would be at least a new experience.

Mr. Dwelf was a man of indefinite age; his high, narrow forehead, cold grey eyes, and determined manner bespoke an unflinching purpose. He had a large book under his arm, and there seemed every probability that he had left a package of similar volumes in the hall. He took a seat before it had been offered him, placed the book on the table, and began to address Mellowkent in the manner of an “open letter.”

“You are a literary man, the author of several well-known books⁠—”

“I am engaged on a book at the present moment⁠—rather busily engaged,” said Mellowkent, pointedly.

“Exactly,” said the intruder; “time with you is a commodity of considerable importance. Minutes, even, have their value.”