g4 ANGEL PAVEMENT

goes following some chap for miles, and then because
this chap doesn't take any notice of him-he doesn't
know he's there, of course, and doesn't care, anyhow-
he thinks he's a little Sexton Blake/'

"No, I don't," said Stanley, wrinkling up his freckled
ace until it achieved a look of intense disgust.

'The best thing you can do, Stanley," said Mr.
Smeeth, sitting down at his desk, "is to drop these silly
tricks. They'll get you into trouble one of these days,
Why don't you do something sensible in your spare
time? Get a hobby. Do a bit of fretwork or collect
foreign stamps or butterflies or something like that."

"Huh! Nobody does them things now. Out of date,"
Stanley muttered.

"Well, work's not out of date, not here, anyhow,"
Mr. Smeeth retorted, in time-old schoolmaster fashion,
"So just get on with a bit."

Miss Matfield arrived, quarter of an hour late, as
usual. "Don't talk to me, anybody," she commanded,
"I'm furious. Of all the foul lunches I've ever had in
this City, to-day's was the foulest. It makes me sick to
think about it. Look here, is Mr. Dersingham ever
comitig here again? It's absurd—I've got umpteen things
for him to sign. Can you do anything with them, Mr,
Smeeth?"

"I'll have a look at them, Miss Matfield," said Mr,
Smeeth wearily,

The afternoon dragged on.

AT five o'clock, Mr, Dersingham arrived, bursting in
like1 a large pink bomb, He was breathless, perspiring,