how much he had liked Mr. Burnham in their previous acquaintance. He had been almost sorry when the case was concluded. It was not a feeling he indulged in often. All too frequently he saw pettiness, spite, a mind too willing to leap to prejudiced assumptions, instances where unnecessary cruelty or greed had opened the way for acts of impulse which were beyond the borders of selfishness and into the area of actual crime. Sometimes there was a justice to be served, too often simply a law. The case here had been one of the happy exceptions.
Mr. Burnham put more coals in the fire. It was now roaring rather dangerously up the chimney, and he regarded it with a flicker of alarm before deciding it would not set the actual fabric of it alight, and relaxed again, folding his hands across his stomach and resettling the cat to its satisfaction.
"Let me tell you a little story about Barton Lambert," he began with candid pleasure. He loved telling stories and could find too few people to listen to him. He was a man who should have had grandchildren. "And you will see what I mean."
Monk smiled, amused at both of them. "Please do." It was just possible the lale would even be enlightening, and he was extremely comfortable and looking forward to a very fine supper. He had tasted Mrs. Shipton's cooking twice before.
Mr. Burnham settled himself still deeper into his chair and began.
"You must understand one thing about Barton Lambert. He loves beauty in all its forms. For all his rather unrefined exterior, frankly, and his"-he smiled, not unkindly, as he said it- "rather plebeian backgrounds-he was in trade-he has the soul of an artist. He has not the talent, but instead of envying those who do, he supports them. That is his way of being part of what they create."
A coal fell out of the fire and he ignored it, in spite of the smoke it sent up.
Monk recovered it with the tongs and replaced it in the blazing heap.
"He is a man without envy," Mr. Burnham carried on without apparently having noticed. "And that of itself is a very beautiful thing, my dear fellow. And I think he is entirely unconscious of it. Virtue that does not regard itself is of peculiar value."
Monk wanted to urge nun to begin the story, but he knew from past experience it would only interrupt his thought and hurt his feelings.
Mrs. Shipton came in and set the small gate-legged table with a lace-edged cloth, silver, salt and pepper pots and very fine crystal glasses, and a few moments later carried in the supper and served it. Mr. Burnham continued with his story, barely hesitating as he removed Florence from his lap and conducted Monk to his chair, and thanked Mrs. Shipton. They began to eat.
"Lord..." He hesitated. "I think I shall decline, in the interests of discretion, to give him a name. In any case, someone approached Mr. Lambert about building a civic hall for the performance of musical concerts for the public." He passed Monk the dish of steaming vegetables and watched with satisfaction as he took a liberal helping. "Excellent, my dear fellow," he applauded. "The hall would have been most expensive, and milord was prepared to put forward at least half of the cost himself if Lambert would put forward the other half. He had connections with the royal family." He put a small piece of pie on a saucer and put it on the floor for Florence. "The prestige would have been enormous, and something not open to Lambert from any other source. You may imagine what it would have meant to such a man, who is genuinely most patriotic. The mere mention of the Queen's name will produce in him a solemnity and a respect which is quite marked. Only a most insensitive person would fail to be affected by it, because it is sincere. No honorable man mocks what is honest in another."
Monk was enjoying his meal very much. The rich home baking was a luxury he was offered far too seldom, and the thought that all this was so far of no professional value was overridden by physical pleasure, and possibly also by the knowledge that Mr. Burnham was enjoying himself.
"This hall," Mr. Burnham went on, helping himself to more dark, spicy pickle and pushing the dish across the table towards Monk, "was to be dedicated to Her Majesty. It was some time ago now,