* * * * *
'And who _is_ Mr Karswell?' inquired the Secretary's wife. She had called
at his office, and (perhaps unwarrantably) had picked up the last of
these three letters, which the typist had just brought in.
'Why, my dear, just at present Mr Karswell is a very angry man. But I
don't know much about him otherwise, except that he is a person of
wealth, his address is Lufford Abbey, Warwickshire, and he's an
alchemist, apparently, and wants to tell us all about it; and that's
about all--except that I don't want to meet him for the next week or two.
Now, if you're ready to leave this place, I am.'
'What have you been doing to make him angry?' asked Mrs Secretary.
'The usual thing, my dear, the usual thing: he sent in a draft of a paper
he wanted to read at the next meeting, and we referred it to Edward
Dunning--almost the only man in England who knows about these things--and
he said it was perfectly hopeless, so we declined it. So Karswell has
been pelting me with letters ever since. The last thing he wanted was the
name of the man we referred his nonsense to; you saw my answer to that.
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