Now, when he had poured out some whiskey and water and lit a cigar, the lounging chairs somehow did not attract him. He moved about aimlessly in the circumscribed space, his hands in his pockets, his burly shoulders rounded, his face dulled and heavy as with a depression of doubt. The sound of the piano upstairs came intermittently to his ears. Often he ascended to the drawing-room to hear Julia play—and more often still, with all the doors open, he enjoyed the mellowed murmur of her music here at his ease in the big chair. But tonight he had no joy in the noise. More than once, as he slouched restlessly round the room, the notion of asking her to stop suggested itself, but he forbore to put it into action. Once he busied himself for a time in kneeling before his safe, and scrutinizing in detail the papers in one of the bundles it contained.

At last—it was after ten o'clock, and the music above had ceased—the welcome sounds of cab-wheels without, and then of the door-bell, came to dispel his fidgeting suspense. On the instant he straightened himself, and his face rearranged its expression. He fastened upon the door of the room the controlled, calm glance of one who is easily confident about what is to happen.

"Quaker-looking" was not an inapt phrase for the person whom the maid ushered into the room through this door. He was a small, thin, elderly man, bowed of figure and shuffling in gait. His coat and large, low-crowned hat, though worn almost to shabbiness, conveyed an indefinable sense of some theological standard, or pretence to such a standard. His meagre face, too, with its infinity of anxious yet meaningless lines, and its dim spectacled eyes, so plainly overtaxed by the effort to discern anything clearly, might have belonged to any old village priest grown childish and blear-eyed in the solitude of stupid books. Even the blotches of tell-tale colour on his long nose were not altogether unclerical in their suggestion. A poor old man he seemed, as he stood blinking in the electric light of the strange, warm apartment—a helpless, worn old creature, inured through long years to bleak adverse winds, hoping now for nothing better in this world than present shelter.

"How do you do, Mr. Thorpe," he said, after a moment, with nervous formality. "This is unexpectedly kind of you, sir."

"Why—not at all!" said Thorpe, shaking him cordially by the hand. "What have we got houses for, but to put up our old friends? And how are you, anyway? You've brought your belongings, have you? That's right!" He glanced into the hall, to make sure that they were being taken upstairs, and then closed the door. "I suppose you've dined. Take off your hat and coat! Make yourself at home. That's it—take the big chair, there—so! And now let's have a look at you. Well, Tavender, my man, you haven't grown any younger. But I suppose none of us do. And what'll you have to drink? I take plain water in mine, but there's soda if you prefer it. And which shall it be—Irish or Scotch?"

Mr. Tavender's countenance revealed the extremity of his surprise and confusion at the warmth of this welcome. It apparently awed him as well, for though he shrank into a corner of the huge chair, he painstakingly abstained from resting his head against its back. Uncovered, this head gained a certain dignity of effect from the fashion in which the thin, iron-grey hair, parted in the middle, fell away from the full, intellectual temples, and curled in meek locks upon his collar. A vague resemblance to the type of Wesley—or was it Froebel?—might have hinted itself to the observer's mind.

Thorpe's thoughts, however, were not upon types. "Well"—he said, from the opposite chair, in his roundest, heartiest voice, when the other had with diffidence suffered himself to be served, and had deferentially lighted on one side the big cigar pressed upon him—"Well—and how's the world been using you?"

"Not very handsomely, Mr. Thorpe," the other responded, in a hushed, constrained tone.

"Oh, chuck the Misters!" Thorpe bade him. "Aren't we old pals, man? You're plain Tavender, and I'm plain Thorpe."

"You're very kind," murmured Tavender, still abashed. For some minutes he continued to reply dolefully, and with a kind of shamefaced reluctance, to the questions piled upon him. He was in evil luck: nothing had gone well with him; it had been with the greatest difficulty that he had scraped together enough to get back to London on the chance of obtaining some expert commission; practically he possessed nothing in the world beyond the clothes on his back, and the contents of two old carpet-bags—these admissions, by degrees, were wormed from him.

"But have you parted with the concession, then, that you bought from me?" Thorpe suddenly asked him. "Help yourself to some more whiskey!"

Tavender sighed as he tipped the decanter. "It isn't any good," he answered, sadly. "The Government repudiates it—that is, the Central Government at Mexico. Of course, I never blamed you. I bought it with my eyes open, and you sold it in perfect good faith. I never doubted that at all. But it's not worth the paper it's written on—that's certain. It's that that busted me—that, and some other things."

"Well—well!" said Thorpe, blankly. His astonishment was obviously genuine, and for a little it kept him silent, while he pondered the novel aspects of the situation thus disclosed. Then his eyes brightened, as a new path outlined itself.

"I suppose you've got the papers?—the concession and my transfer to you and all that?" he asked, casually.

"Oh, yes," replied Tavender. He added, with a gleam of returning self-command—"That's all I have got."

"Let's see—what was it you paid me?—Three thousand eight hundred pounds, wasn't it?"

Tavender made a calculation in mental arithmetic. "Yes, something like that. Just under nineteen thousand dollars," he said.

"Well," remarked Thorpe, with slow emphasis, "I won't allow you to suffer that way by me. I'll buy it back from you at the same price you paid for it."

Tavender, beginning to tremble, jerked himself upright in his chair, and stared through his spectacles at his astounding host. "You say"—he gasped—"you say you'll buy it back!"

"Certainly," said Thorpe. "That's what I said."

"I—I never heard of such a thing!" the other faltered with increasing agitation. "No—you can't mean it. It isn't common sense!"

"It's common decency," replied the big man, in his most commanding manner. "It's life and death to you—and it doesn't matter a flea-bite to me. So, since you came to grief through me, why shouldn't I do the fair thing, and put you back on your legs again?"

Tavender, staring now at those shrunken legs of his, breathed heavily. The thing overwhelmed him. Once or twice he lifted his head and essayed to speak, but no speech came to his thin lips. He moistened them eventually with a long deliberate pull at his glass.

"This much ought to be understood, however," Thorpe resumed, reflecting upon his words as he went along. "If I'm to buy back a dead horse, like that, it's only reasonable that there should be conditions. I suppose you've seen by this time that even if this concession of ours was recognized by the Government there wouldn't be any money in it to speak of. I didn't realize that two years ago, any more than you did, but it's plain enough now. The trade has proved it. A property of rubber trees has no real value—so long as there's a wilderness of rubber trees all round that's everybody's property. How can a man pay even the interest on his purchase money, supposing he's bought a rubber plantation, when he has to compete with people who've paid no purchase money at all, but just get out as much as they like from the free forest? You must know that that is so."

Tavender nodded eloquently. "Oh yes, I know that is so. You can prove it by me."

Thorpe grinned a little. "As it happens, that aint what I need to have you prove," he said, dryly. "Now WE know that a rubber property is no good—but London doesn't know it. Everybody here thinks that it's a great business to own rubber trees. Why, man alive, do you know"—the audacity of the example it had occurred to him to cite brought a gratified twinkle to his eyes as he went on—"do you know that a man here last year actually sold a rubber plantation for four hundred thousand pounds—two millions of dollars! Not in cash, of course, but in shares that he could do something with—and before he's done with it, I'm told, he's going to make twice that amount of money out of it. That'll show you what London is like."

"Yes—I suppose they do those things," remarked Tavender, vaguely.

"Well—my point is that perhaps I can do something or other with this concession of yours here. I may even be able to get my money back on it. At any rate I'll take my chances on it—so that at least you shan't lose anything by it. Of course, if you'd rather try and put it on the market yourself, why go ahead!" There was a wistful pathos in the way Tavender shook his head. "Big money doesn't mean anything to me any more," he said, wearily. "I'm too old and I'm too tired. Why—four—five—yes, half a dozen times I've had enough money to last me comfortably all my life—and every time I've used it as bait to catch bigger money with, and lost it all. I don't do that any more! I've got something the matter with me internally that takes the nerve all out of me. The doctors don't agree about it, but whatever its name is I've got it for keeps. Probably I shan't live very long"—Thorpe recalled that the old man had always taken a gloomy view of his health after the third glass—"and if you want to pay me the nineteen thousand dollars, or whatever it is, why I shall say 'God bless you,' and be more than contented."

"Oh, there's something more to it than that," observed Thorpe, with an added element of business-like briskness in his tone. "If I let you out in this way—something, of course, you could never have dreamed would happen—you must do some things for me. I should want you, for example, to go back to Mexico at once. Of course, I'd pay your expenses out. Or say, I'd give you a round four thousand pounds to cover that and some other things too. You wouldn't object to that, would you?"

The man who, two hours before, had confronted existence with the change of his last five-pound note in his pocket, did not hesitate now. "Oh no, that would be all right," with reviving animation, he declared. He helped himself again from the cut-glass decanter. "What would you want me to do there?"

"Oh, a report on the concession for a starter," Thorpe answered, with careful indifference. "I suppose they still know your name as an authority. I could make that all right anyway. But one thing I ought to speak of—it might be rather important—I wouldn't like to have you mention to anybody that the concession has at any time been yours. That might tend to weaken the value of your report, don't you see? Let it be supposed that the concession has been my property from the start. You catch my point, don't you? There never was any such thing as a transfer of it to you. It's always been mine!"

Tavender gave his benefactor a purblind sort of wink. "Always belonged to you? Why of course it did," he said cheerfully.

The other breathed a cautious prolonged sigh of relief "You'd better light a fresh one, hadn't you?" he asked, observing with a kind of contemptuous tolerance the old man's efforts to ignite a cigar which had more than once unrolled like a carpenter's shaving in his unaccustomed fingers, and was now shapelessly defiant of both draught and suction. Tavender laughed to himself silently as he took a new cigar, and puffed at the match held by his companion. The air of innocence and long-suffering meekness was falling rapidly away from him. He put his shabby boots out confidently to the fender and made gestures with his glass as he talked.

"My mistake," he declared, in insistent tones, "was in not turning down science thirty years ago and going in bodily for business. Then I should have made my pile as you seem to have done. But I tried to do something of both. Half the year I was assaying crushings, or running a level, or analyzing sugars, for a salary, and the other half I was trying to do a gamble with that salary on the strength of what I'd learned. You can't ring the bell that way. You've got to be either a pig or a pup. You can't do both. Now, for instance, if I'd come to London when you did, and brought my money with me instead of buying your concession with it——"

"Why, what good do you suppose you would have done?" Thorpe interrupted him with good-natured brusqueness. "You'd have had it taken from you in a fortnight! Why, man, do you know what London is? You'd have had no more chance here than a naked nigger in a swamp-full of alligators."

"You seem to have hit it off," the other objected. "This is as fine a house as I was ever in."

"With me it's different," Thorpe replied, carelessly. "I have the talent for money-making. I'm a man in armour. The 'gators can't bite me, nor yet the rattle-snakes."

"Yes—men are made up differently," Tavender assented, with philosophical gravity. Then he lurched gently in the over-large chair, and fixed an intent gaze upon his host. "What did you make your money in?" he demanded, not with entire distinctness of enunciation. "It wasn't rubber, was it?"

Thorpe shook his head. "There's no money in rubber. I'm entirely in finance—on the Stock Exchange—dealing in differences," he replied, with a serious face.

The explanation seemed wholly acceptable to Tavender. He mused upon it placidly for a time, with his reverend head pillowed askew against the corner of the chair. Then he let his cigar drop, and closed his eyes.

The master of the house bent forward, and noiselessly helped himself to another glass of whiskey and water. Then, sinking back again, he eyed his odd guest meditatively as he sipped the drink. He said to himself that in all the miraculous run of luck which the year had brought him, this was the most extraordinary manifestation of the lot. It had been so easy to ignore the existence of this tiresome and fatuous old man, so long as he was in remote Mexico, that he had practically forgotten him. But he should not soon forget the frightened shock with which he had learned of his presence in London, that afternoon. For a minute or two, there in his sister's book-shop, it had seemed as if he were falling through the air—as if the substantial earth had crumbled away from under him. But then his nerve had returned to him, his resourceful brain had reasserted itself. With ready shrewdness he had gone out, and met the emergency, and made it the servant of his own purposes.

He could be glad now, unreservedly glad, that Tavender had come to London, that things had turned out as they had. In truth, he stood now for the first time on solid ground. When he thought of it, now, the risk he had been running all these months gave him a little sinking of the heart. Upon reflection, the performance of having sold the same property first to Tavender in Mexico and then to the Rubber Consols Company in London might be subject to injurious comment, or worse. The fact that it was not a real property to begin with had no place in his thoughts. It was a concession—and concessions were immemorially worth what they would fetch. But the other thing might have been so awkward—and now it was all right!

For an hour and more, till the fire burnt itself out and the guest's snoring became too active a nuisance, Thorpe sat lost in this congratulatory reverie. Then he rose, and sharply shaking Tavender into a semblance of consciousness, led him upstairs and put him to bed.

Three days later he personally saw Tavender off at Waterloo station by the steamer-train, en route for Southampton and New York. The old man was in childlike good spirits, looking more ecclesiastical than ever in the new clothes he had been enabled to buy. He visibly purred with content whenever his dim eyes caught sight of the new valise and steamer trunk, which belonged to him, on the busy platform.

"You've been very kind to me, Thorpe," he said more than once, as they stood together beside the open door of the compartment. "I was never so hospitably treated before in my life. Your attention to me has been wonderful. I call you a true friend."

"Oh, that's all right! Glad to do it," replied the other, lightly. In truth he had not let Tavender stray once out of his sight during those three days. He had dragged him tirelessly about London, showing him the sights from South Kensington Museum to the Tower, shopping with him, resting in old taverns with him, breakfasting, lunching, aud dining with him—in the indefatigable resolution that he should strike up no dangerous gossiping acquaintance with strangers. The task had been tiresome in the extreme—but it had been very well worth while.

"One thing I'm rather sorry about," Tavender remarked, in apologetic parenthesis—"I ought to have gone down and seen that brother-in-law of mine in Kent. He's been very good to me, and I'm not treating him very well. I wrote to tell him I was coming—but since then I haven't had a minute to myself. However, I can write to him and explain how it happened. And probably I'll be over again sometime."

"Why, of course," said Thorpe, absently. The allusion to the brother-in-law in Kent had escaped his notice, so intent was he upon a new congeries of projects taking vague shape in his mind.

"Think of yourself as my man out there," he said now, slowly, following the clue of his thoughts. "There may be big things to do. Write to me as often as you can. Tell me everything that's going on. Money will be no object to me—you can have as much as you like—if things turn up out there that are worth taking up. But mind you say nothing about me—or any connection you've ever had with me. You'll get a letter from the Secretary of a Company and the Chairman asking for a report on a certain property, and naming a fee. You simply make a good report—on its merits. You say nothing about anything else—about me, or the history of the concession, or its validity, or anything. I mustn't be alluded to in any way. You quite understand that?"

"Trust me!" said the old man, and wrung his benefactor's hand.

It was indeed with a trustful eye that Thorpe watched the train draw out of the station.



CHAPTER XVI

THE week following the August Bank Holiday is very rarely indeed a busy or anxious time in the City. In the ordinary course of things, it serves as the easy-going prelude—with but casual and inattentive visits eastward, and with only the most careless glances through the financial papers—to the halcyon period of the real vacation. Men come to the City during this week, it is true, but their thoughts are elsewhere—on the moors, on the blue sea, on the glacier or the fiord, or the pleasant German pine forests.

To the great mass of City people; this August in question began in a normal enough fashion. To one little group of operators, however, and to the widening circle of brokers, bankers, and other men of affairs whose interests were more or less involved with those of this group, it was a season of keen perturbation. A combat of an extraordinary character was going on—a combat which threatened to develop into a massacre. Even to the operators who, unhappily for themselves, were principals in this fight, it was a struggle in the dark. They knew little about it, beyond the grimly-patent fact that they were battling for their very lives. The outer ring of their friends and supporters and dependents knew still less, though their rage and fears were perhaps greater. The "press" seemed to know nothing at all. This unnatural silence of the City's mouthpieces, usually so resoundingly clamorous upon the one side and the other when a duel is in progress, gave a sinister aspect to the thing. The papers had been gagged and blindfolded for the occasion. This in itself was of baleful significance. It was not a duel which they had been bribed to ignore. It was an assassination.

Outwardly there was nothing to see, save the unofficial, bald statement that on August 1st, the latest of twelve fortnightly settlements in this stock, Rubber Consols had been bid for, and carried over, at 15 pounds for one-pound shares. The information concerned the public at large not at all. Nobody knew of any friend or neighbour who was fortunate enough to possess some of these shares. Readers here and there, noting the figures, must have said to themselves that certain lucky people were coining money, but very little happened to be printed as to the identity of these people. Stray notes were beginning to appear in the personal columns of the afternoon papers about a "Rubber King" of the name of Thorpe, but the modern exploitation of the world's four corners makes so many "kings" that the name had not, as yet, familiarized itself to the popular eye.

City men, who hear more than they read, knew in a general way about this "Rubber King." He was an outsider who had come in, and was obviously filling his pockets; but it was a comforting rule that outsiders who did this always got their pockets emptied for them again in the long run. There seemed nothing about Thorpe to suggest that he would prove an exception to the rule. He was investing his winnings with great freedom, so the City understood, and his office was besieged daily by promoters and touts. They could clean out his strong-box faster than the profits of his Rubber corner could fill it. To know such a man, however, could not but be useful, and they made furtive notes of his number in Austin Friars on their cuffs, after conversation had drifted from him to other topics.

As to the Rubber corner itself, the Stock Exchange as a whole was apathetic. When some of the sufferers ventured cautious hints about the possibility of official intervention on their behalf, they were laughed at by those who did not turn away in cold silence. Of the fourteen men who had originally been caught in the net drawn tight by Thorpe and Semple, all the conspicuous ones belonged to the class of "wreckers," a class which does not endear itself to Capel Court.

Both Rostocker and Aronson, who, it was said, were worst hit, were men of great wealth, but they had systematically amassed these fortunes by strangling in their cradles weak enterprises, and by undermining and toppling over other enterprises which would not have been weak if they had been given a legitimate chance to live. Their system was legal enough, in the eyes alike of the law and of the Stock Exchange rules. They had an undoubted right to mark out their prey and pursue it, and bring it down, and feed to the bone upon it. But the exercise of this right did not make them beloved by the begetters and sponsors of their victims. When word first went round, on the last day of February, that a lamb had unexpectedly turned upon these two practised and confident wolves, and had torn an ear from each of them, and driven them pell-mell into a "corner," it was received on all sides with a gratified smile.

Later, by fortnightly stages, the story grew at once more tragic and more satisfactory. Not only Rostocker and Aronson, but a dozen others were in the cul de sac guarded by this surprising and bloody-minded lamb. Most of the names were well-known as those of "wreckers." In this category belonged Blaustein, Ganz, Rothfoere, Lewis, Ascher, and Mendel, and if Harding, Carpenter, and Vesey could not be so confidently classified, at least their misfortune excited no particular sympathy. Two other names mentioned, those of Norfell and Pinney, were practically unknown.

There was some surprise, however, at the statement that the old and respected and extremely conservative firm of Fromentin Bros. was entangled in the thing. Egyptian bonds, minor Levantine loans, discounts in the Arabian and Persian trades—these had been specialties of the Fromentins for many years. Who could have expected to find them caught among the "shorts" in Mexican rubber? It was Mexico, wasn't it, that these Rubber Consols purported to be connected with?

Thorpe's Company, upon its commercial merits, had not been considered at all by the gentlemen of the Stock Exchange, at the time of its flotation. Men vaguely and with difficulty recalled the fact of its prospectus, when the "corner" in its shares was first talked about. They looked it up in their lists and files, later on, but its terms said nothing to them. Nobody discussed the value of the assets owned by this Company, or the probability of its paying a dividend—even when the price bid for its shares was making the most sensational upward leaps. How Thorpe stood with his shareholders, or whether he had any genuine shareholders behind him at all, was seen by the keen eyes of Capel Court to be beside the question. Very likely it was a queer affair, if the truth were known—but at least it had substance enough in it to be giving the "wreckers" a lively time.

By the end of July it was understood that the fight was better worth watching than anything that had been seen in a long time. The only trouble was that there was so little to see. The papers said nothing. The sufferers were the reverse of garrulous. The little red Scotchman, Semple, who was the visible avenging sword of the "corner," was more imperturbably silent than anybody else. His fellow-members in the "House" watched him now, however, with a new respect. They discovered unsuspected elements of power in his thin, tight mouth, in the direct, cold glances of his brown-grey eyes, in the very way he carried his head and wore his hat. He came to be pointed out, and nodded about behind his back, more than anyone else in the "House," and important men sought his acquaintance, with an awkward show of civility, who were notorious for their rude exclusiveness.

It might be, of course, that his "corner" would break under him at any fortnightly settlement, but already he had carried it much further than such things often went, and the planning of the coup had been beyond doubt Napoleonic.

Had this small sandy Scot planned it, or was he merely the weapon in Thorpe's hand? Both views had their supporters on the Exchange, but after the wrench of August 1st, when with an abrupt eighty-shilling rise the price of Rubber Consols stood at 15 pounds, and it was to be computed that Semple had received on that single day nearly 75,000 pounds in differences and "backwardation," a story was set afloat which gave Thorpe the undivided credit of the invention. It was related as coming from his own lips that he had schemed it all out to be revenged upon a group of Jewish operators, against whom he had a grievance. In confirmation of this tale, it was pointed out that, of the seven men still held pinned in the fatal "corner," six were Jews—and this did, upon first glance, look significant. But then it was objected, upon reflection, that Blaustein and Ascher had both been permitted to make their escape, and this hardly justified the theory of an implacable anti-Semitic vendetta. The objection seemed reasonable, but it was met in turn by the point that Blaustein and Ascher had been bled white, as Bismarck's phrase went, before they were released, whereas the five Christians had been liberated with relatively moderate fines. Upon the whole, a certain odour of the Judenhetze clung thereafter about the "corner" in Rubber Consols.

On an afternoon of the following week, Mr. Stormont Thorpe was alone in the Board Room of the offices in Austin Friars. He had risen from the great roller-topped desk over between the windows, and walked now with a lethargic, tired step to and fro before the empty fireplace, yawning more than once, and stretching out his arms in the supreme gesture of fatigue. After a dozen listless rounds, something occurred to him. He moved with a certain directness of purpose to the cabinet in the corner, unlocked it, and poured out for himself a tumbler of brandy and soda. He drank it without a pause, then turned again, and began pacing up and down as before, his hands clasped behind him, his head bent in thought.

The intervening six months had effected visible changes in the outer man. One noted most readily that the face had grown fuller in its lower parts, and was far less browned than formerly. The large, heavy countenance, with its square jaws masked now under increased flesh, its beginnings of a double-chin, and its slightly flabby effect of pallor, was no longer lacking in individual distinction. It was palpably the visage of a dictator. The moustache had been cut down to military brevity, and the line of mouth below it was eloquent of rough power. The steady grey eyes, seemingly smaller yet more conspicuous than before, revealed in their glance new elements of secretiveness, of strategy supported by abundant and confident personal force.

The man himself seemed scarcely to have grown stouter. He held himself more compactly, as it were; seemed more the master of all his physical expressions. He was dressed like a magnate who was also a person of taste. There was a flower in the lapel of his well-shaped frock-coat, and the rustle of his starched and spotless white waistcoat murmured pleasantly of refined toilets.

"The Marquis of Chaldon—and a gentleman, with him."

The announcement, from a clerk who had noiselessly opened the door, imposed itself with decorum upon Thorpe's reverie.

"Who is the gentleman with him?" Thorpe began austerely to ask, after an instant's hesitation. But this briefest of delays had brought the callers into plain view behind the clerk, and with a slight gesture the master assented to their entrance.

This large apartment was no longer called the Board Room by anybody. By tacit processes, it had become Mr. Thorpe's room. Not even the titular Chairman of the Company, the renowned and eminent Lord Chaldon, ex-Ambassador and ex-Viceroy, entered this chamber now with any assumption of proprietorship in it. No hint of a recollection that there were such things as the Company and the Board, or that he was nominally the head of both, expressed itself in his Lordship's demeanour as he advanced, his hand a little extended.

The noble Chairman was white of beard and hair, and extremely courteous of manner—a small, carefully-clad, gracious old gentleman, whose mild pink countenance had, with years of anxiety about ways and means, disposed itself in lines which produced a chronic expression of solicitude. A nervous affection of the eyelids lent to this look, at intervals, a beseeching quality which embarrassed the beholder. All men had liked him, and spoken well of him throughout his long and hard-worked career. Thorpe was very fond of him indeed, and put a respectful cordiality into his grasp of the proffered hand. Then he looked, with a certain thinly-veiled bluntness of enquiry, past the Marquis to his companion.

"You were very kind to give me the appointment," said Lord Chaldon, with a little purring gloss of affability upon the earnestness of his tone. "I wish very much to introduce to you my friend, my old friend I may say, Monsieur Alexandre Fromentin. We slept together under the same tent, in the Persian country beyond Bagdad—oh, it must have been quite forty years ago. We were youngsters looking to win our first spurs then—I in my line, he in his. And often since we have renewed that old friendship—at many different places—India, and Constantinople, and Egypt. I wish heartily to commend him to your—your kindness."

Thorpe had perfunctorily shaken hands with the stranger—a tall, slender, sharp-faced, clean-shaven, narrow-shouldered man, who by these accounts of his years ought not to have such excessively black hair. He bowed in a foreign fashion, and uttered some words which Thorpe, though he recognized them as English in intent, failed to follow. The voice was that of an elderly man, and at a second glance there were plenty of proofs that he might have been older than the Marquis, out there in Persia, forty years ago. But Thorpe did not like old men who dyed their hair, and he offered his visitors chairs, drawn up from the table toward his desk, with a certain reserve of manner. Seating himself in the revolving chair at the desk itself, he put the tips of his fingers together, and looked this gentleman with the Continental name and experience in the face.

"Is there something you wish me to do?" he asked, passively facilitating the opening of conversation.

"Ah, my God! 'Something'!"—repeated the other, with a fluttering gesture of his hands over his thin, pointed knees—"everything, Mr. Thorpe!"

"That's a tolerably large order, isn't it?" Thorpe asked, calmly, moving a slow, inscrutable glance from one to the other of his callers.

"I could ask for nothing that would be a greater personal favour—and kindness"—Lord Chaldon interposed. His tone bore the stress of sincerity.

"That means a great deal to me, as you know, my Lord," replied Thorpe, "but I don't in the least understand—what is it that your friend wants?"

"Only that I shall not be buried in a bankrupt's grave," the suppliant answered, with a kind of embittered eagerness of utterance. "That I shall not see disgraced the honoured name that my father and his father bequeathed to my care!"

Thorpe's large, composed countenance betrayed a certain perplexity. "There must be a mistake," he observed. "I don't even know this name of yours. I never heard it before."

The other's mobile face twisted itself in a grimace of incredulity. He had a conspicuously wide mouth, and its trick of sidelong extension at this moment was very unpleasant. "Ah, Herr Je! He never heard it," he ejaculated, turning nervously to the Marquis. "Would to the good God you never had!" he told Thorpe, with suppressed excitement.

Lord Chaldon, his own voice shaken a little, interposed with an explanation. "My friend is the head—the respected head—of the firm of Fromentin Brothers. I think you have—have dealings with them."

Thorpe, after a furtive instant of bewilderment, opened his mouth. "Oh! I see," he said. "I know what you mean now. With the French pronunciation, I didn't recognize the name. I've always heard it called 'Fromen'-tin' here in London. Oh, yes, of course—Fromen'tin Brothers."

His lips shut tight again at this. The listeners had caught no helpful clue from the tone of his words. They exchanged a glance, and then M. Fromentin spoke.

"Mr. Thorpe," he began, slowly, with an obvious effort at self-repression. "It is a very simple story. Our house is an old one. My father's grandfather organized the finance of the commissariat of General Bonaparte in Egypt. He created the small beginnings of the carpet and rug importation from Asia Minor. His son, and in turn his son, followed him. They became bankers as well as importers. They helped very greatly to develop the trade of the Levant. They were not avaricious men, or usurers. It is not in our blood. Your Chairman, Lord Chaldon, who honours me so highly by calling me his friend—he will assure you that we have a good name in the East. Our banks have befriended the people, and never oppressed or injured them. For that reason—I will say perhaps for that reason—we have never become a very rich house. It is possible to name bankers who have made large fortunes out of Egypt. It was different with us. Lord Chaldon will tell you that of our own free will—my two brothers and I—of our own choice we consented to lose a fifth of all our possessions, rather than coin into gold by force the tears and blood of the wretched fellaheen."

"Yes—I have never known a more honourable or humane action," put in the Marquis, fervently.

"And then my brothers die—Polydor, who lived mostly at Smyrna, and whose estate was withdrawn from the business by his widow, and Augustin, who lived here in London after 1870, and died—it is now six years ago. He left a son, Robert, who is my nephew, and my partner. He is now of an age—perhaps thirty years. He was a small child when he came to London—he has become more English than the English themselves. His activity and industry are very great; he forms plans of such magnitude and numbers that they would compel his grandfather to turn in his coffin. I am in indifferent health. I live much at Homburg and Marienbad and at Cairo. Practically speaking, I have retired from business. There remain branches of our house—in several places—but the London house has become the centre of all things—and Robert has become the London house. This I make plain to your mind, do I, Mr. Thorpe?"

The other, with his chin sunk within the collar of his white waistcoat, and scrutinizing the narrator with a steadfast though impassive glance, made the faintest possible nod of assent.

"I had great confidence in Robert," the old man went on. His eyes were dimming with tears, and his voice quavered uncertainly. "His plans seemed wise, even if they risked more than formerly. The conditions of business are wholly altered since my youth—and it was best, I thought, to make Robert free to act under these conditions, which he understood much better than I could pretend to do. Thus it was that when he said it was necessary for Fromentin Brothers to belong to the Stock Exchange, I did not object. He was active and bold and clever, and he was in the thick of the fight. Therefore he should be the judge in all things. And that is our ruin. In the time of the South African excitement, he won a great deal of money. Then he lost it all and more. Then gambling began, and his fortunes went now up, now down, but always, as his books show to me now—sinking a little on the average. He grew more adventurous—more careless. He put many small counters upon different numbers on the table. You know what I mean? And in an accursed moment, because other gamblers were doing the same, he sold two thousand of your shares, without having them in his hands. Voila! He wishes now to put a bullet through his brain. He proposes that as the fitting end of Fromentin Freres."

Thorpe, his chin on his breast, continued to regard the melancholy figure opposite with a moody eye. It seemed a long minute before he broke the tense silence by a sigh of discomfort. "I do not discuss these things with anybody," he said then, coldly. "If I had known who you were, I don't think you'd have got in."

The Marquis of Chaldon intuitively straightened himself in his chair, and turned toward the speaker a glance of distressed surprise.

"Or no—I beg your pardon," Thorpe hastened to add, upon the instant hint of this look—"that doesn't convey my meaning. Of course, our Chairman brings whom he pleases. His friends—as a matter of course—are our friends. What I should have said was that if this had been mentioned beforehand to me, I should have explained that it wasn't possible to discuss that particular business."

"But—pardon me"—said Lord Chaldon, in a quiet, very gentle, yet insistent voice, which seemed now to recall to its listeners the fact that sovereigns and chancellors had in their day had attentive ears for its tones—"pardon me, but why should it not be possible?"

Thorpe frowned doubtfully, and shifted his position in his chair. "What could I say, if it were discussed?" he made vague retort. "I'm merely one of the Directors. You are our Chairman, but you see he hasn't found it of any use to discuss it with you. There are hard and fast rules about these things. They run their natural course. You are not a business man, my Lord——"

"Oh, I think I may be called a 'business man,'" interposed the nobleman, suavely. "They would tell you so in Calcutta, I think, and in Cairo too. When one considers it, I have transacted a great deal of business—on the behalf of other people. And if you will permit me—I do not impute indirection, of course—but your remark seems to require a footnote. It is true that I am Chairman of the Board on which you are a Director—but it is not quite the whole truth. I as Chairman know absolutely nothing about this matter. As I understand the situation, it is not in your capacity as a Director that you know anything about it either. Yet——"

He paused, as if suddenly conscious of some impropriety in this domestic frankness before a third party, and Thorpe pounced through his well-mannered hesitation with the swiftness of a bird of prey.

"Let me suggest," he said roundly, lifting his head and poising a hand to hold attention, while he thought upon what it was he should suggest—"this is what I would say. It seems rather irregular, doesn't it? to debate the matter in the presence of an outsider. You see it yourself. That is partly what I meant. Now I have met Mr. Fromentin," he gave the name its English vowels with an obstinate emphasis, "and I have heard his statement. You have heard it too. If he wishes to lay more facts before us, why, well and good. But then I would suggest that he leave the matter in our hands, to discuss and look into between ourselves. That seems to you the proper course, doesn't it, Lord Chaldon?"

The French banker had been studying with strained acuteness the big lymphatic mask of the Director, with sundry sharp glances aside at the Chairman. The nervous changes on his alert, meagre old face showed how intently he followed every phase of their talk. A certain sardonic perception of evil in the air curled on his lip when he saw the Marquis accede with a bow and wave of the hand to Thorpe's proposition. Then he made his bow in turn, and put the best face possible upon the matter.

"Naturally I consult your convenience—and the proprieties," he said, with an effect of proud humility. "There are but a few other facts to submit. My nephew has already paid, in differences upon those accursed two thousand shares, a sum of nearly 30,000 pounds. I have the figures in my pocket—but they are fixed in my head as well. Twenty-eight thousand five hundred, those differences already amount to, not to speak of interest. At the last settlement, August 1st, the price per share was 15 pounds. That would make 30,000 pounds more, if we bought now—or a total of practically 60,000 pounds. Eh bien! I beg for the privilege of being allowed to buy these shares now. It is an unpleasant confession to make, but the firm of Fromentin Freres will be made very poor by this loss of 60,000 pounds. It was not always so, but it is so now. My nephew Robert has brought it into that condition. You see my shame at this admission. With all my own means, and with his sister's marriage portion, we can make up this sum of 30,000 pounds, and still enable the firm to remain in existence. I have gone over the books very painstakingly, since I arrived in London. It can be kept afloat, and it can be brought back to safe and moderately profitable courses—if nothing worse happens. With another six weeks like the last, this will not be at all possible. We shall have the cup of dishonour thrust between our teeth. That will be the end of everything."

M. Fromentin finished in tremulous, grave tones. After looking with blurred eyes for a moment into Thorpe's face, he bowed his head, and softly swayed the knees upon which his thin, dark hands maintained their clutch. Not even the revelation of hair quite white at the roots, unduly widening the track of parting on the top of his dyed head, could rob this movement of its mournful dignity.

Thorpe, after a moment's pause, took a pencil and paper from the desk, and made a calculation. He bit his lips and frowned at the sight of these figures, and set down some others, which seemed to please him no more. Then, with a sudden gesture as of impatience, he rose to his feet.

"How much is that sister's marriage portion you spoke of?" he asked, rather brusquely.

The French gentleman had also risen. He looked with an air of astonishment at his questioner, and then hardened his face. "I apologize for mentioning it," he said, with brevity. "One does not speak of family affairs."

"I asked you how much it was," pursued Thorpe, in a masterful tone. "A man doesn't want to rob a girl of her marriage portion."

"I think I must not answer you," the other replied, hesitatingly. "It was the fault of my emotion to introduce the subject. Pray leave the young lady out of account."

"Then I've nothing more to say," Thorpe declared, and seated himself again with superfluous energy. He scowled for a little at the disorder of his desk, and then flung forth an angry explanation. "If you evade fair questions like that, how can you expect that I will go out of my way to help you?"

"Oh, permit me, Mr. Thorpe"—the Marquis intervened soothingly—"I think you misapprehend. My friend, I am sure, wished to evade nothing. He had the idea that he was at fault in—in alluding to a purely domestic matter as—as a—what shall I say?—as a plea for your consideration." He turned to the old banker. "You will not refuse to mention the sum to me, will you, my friend?"

M. Fromentin shrugged his shoulders. "It is ten thousand pounds," he replied, almost curtly.

Thorpe was seemingly mollified. "Very well, then," he said. "I will sell you 2,000 shares at ten pounds."

The others exchanged a wondering look.

"Monsieur," the banker stammered—"I see your meaning. You will forgive me—it is very well meant indeed by you—but it was not my proposition. The market-price is fifteen pounds—and we were prepared to pay it." Thorpe laughed in a peremptory, gusty way. "But you can't pay more than I ask!" he told him, with rough geniality. "Come, if I let you and your nephew in out of the cold, what kind of men-folk would you be to insist that your niece should be left outside? As I said, I don't want her money. I don't want any woman's money. If I'm going to be nice to the rest of the family, what's the objection to my being nice to her?"

"Monsieur," said the Frenchman, after an instant's reflection, "I offer none. I did not at the moment perceive the spirit of your words, but I recognize now that it was delicacy itself. I tender you the most profound thanks—for ALL the family."

After some further conversation the elder Fromentin took his departure. Lord Chaldon apparently proposed to accompany him, but Thorpe begged him to remain, and he put aside his hat once more and resumed his seat.

Thorpe walked about a little, with his hands in his pockets, in a restless way. "If it isn't unpleasant to you, I think I'll light a cigar," he said suddenly, and moved over to the cabinet. He poured out a drink of neat brandy, as well, and furtively swallowed it. Then he came back, preceded by a cloud of smoke.

"It went terribly against the grain," he said, with a rueful laugh. "I'd sworn to let no Jew off with an inch of hide left on him—and here three of them have been wheedled out of my grip already."

"Jews?" exclaimed the Marquis, much puzzled. "Did you—did you think Fromentin was a Jew? God bless me! he's no more one than I am! Why, not even so much, for there IS a Herschell in my pedigree. Why, dear man, they were Crusaders!"

Thorpe smiled somewhat sheepishly. "I never noticed much," he said. "It was a foreign-looking name. I took it for granted."

Lord Chaldon bent his brows a little. "Yes-s"—he murmured, meditatively. "I've heard it mentioned that your enterprise was suspected of an anti-Semitic twist. Do you mind my talking a little with you about that?"

"Oh, not at all," the other answered with languid acquiescence, as he seated himself.



CHAPTER XVII

LORD CHALDON'S instructive little monologue on the subject of the Hebrew in finance afforded Thorpe a certain pleasure, which was in its character, perhaps, more social than intellectual.

It was both a flattering and striking experience to have so eminent a man at the side of one's desk, revealing for one's guidance the secrets of sovereigns and cabinets. Great names were mentioned in the course of this dissertation—mentioned with the authoritative ease of one who dined with princes and prime ministers—and Thorpe felt that he shared in the distinction of this familiarity with the august. He was in the position of paying a salary to this courtly old nobleman and statesman, who could tell him of his own intimate knowledge how Emperors conversed with one another; how the Pope fidgeted in his ornate-carved chair when the visitor talked on unwelcome topics; how a Queen and an opera-bouffe dancer waged an obscure and envenomed battle for the possession of a counting-house strong box, and in the outcome a nation was armed with inferior old muskets instead of modern weapons, and the girl got the difference expressed in black pearls.

These reminiscences seemed to alter the atmosphere, and even the appearance, of the Board Room. It was almost as if the apartment itself was becoming historic, like those chambers they pointed out to the tourist wherein crowned heads had slept. The manner of the Marquis lent itself charmingly to this illusion. He spoke in a facile, mellifluous voice, and as fluently as if he had been at work for a long time preparing a dissertation on this subject, instead of taking it up now by chance. In his tone, in his gestures, in the sustained friendliness of his facial expressions, there was a palpable desire to please his auditor—and Thorpe gave more heed to this than to the thread of the discourse. The facts that he heard now about the Jewish masters of international finance were doubtless surprising and suggestive to a degree, but somehow they failed to stimulate his imagination. Lord Chaldon's statesmanlike discussion of the uses to which they put this vast power of theirs; his conviction that on the whole they were beneficent; his dread of the consequences of any organized attempt to take this power away from them, and put it into other and less capable hands—no doubt it was all very clever and wise, but Thorpe did not care for it.

At the end he nodded, and, with a lumbering movement, altered his position in his chair. The fixed idea of despoiling Rostocker, Aronson, Ganz, Rothfoere, Lewis, and Mendel of their last sixpence had been in no wise affected by this entertaining homily. There appeared to be no need of pretending that it had been. If he knew anything of men and their manners, his titled friend would not object to a change of topic.

"Lord Chaldon," he said abruptly, "we've talked enough about general matters. While you're here, we might as well go into the subject of the Company. Our annual meeting is pretty nearly due—but I think it would be better to have it postponed. You see, this extraordinary development of dealing in our shares on the Stock Exchange has occupied my entire attention. There has been no time for arranging the machinery of operations on our property in Mexico. It's still there; it's all right. But for the time being, the operations in London are so much more important. We should have nothing to tell our shareholders, if we brought them together, except that their one-pound shares are worth fifteen pounds, and they know that already."

The Marquis had listened with a shrewdly attentive eye upon the speaker's face. The nervous affection of his eyelids gave him now a minute of blinking leisure in which to frame his comment. "I have not heard that my shares are worth fifteen pounds," he said then, with a direct, meaning little smile.

"No," Thorpe laughed, leaning comfortably back in his chair. "That's what I want to talk to you about. You see, when the Company was started, it was impossible to foresee that this dealing in our ordinary shares would swamp everything else. If things had taken their usual course, and we had paid our attention to Mexico instead of to the London Stock Exchange, my deferred vendor's shares, two thousand of which you hold, would by this time be worth a good bit. As it is, unfortunately, they are outside of the deal. They have nothing to do with the movement of the ordinary shares. But of course you understand all that."

Lord Chaldon assented by an eloquent nod, at once resigned and hopeful.

"Well—that is contrary to all my expectations—and intentions," Thorpe resumed. "I don't want you to suffer by this unlooked-for change in the shape of things. You hold two thousand shares—only by accident they're the wrong kind of shares. Very well: I'll make them the right kind of shares. I'll have a transfer sent to you tomorrow, so that you can return those vendor's shares to me, and in exchange for them I'll give you two thousand fully-paid ordinary shares. You can sell these at once, if you like, or you can hold them on over one more settlement, whichever you please."

"This is very munificent," remarked Lord Chaldon, after an instant's self-communion. His tone was extremely gracious, but he displayed none of the enthusiastic excitement which Thorpe perceived now that he had looked for. The equanimity of Marquises, who were also ex-Ambassadors, was evidently a deeper-rooted affair than he had supposed. This elderly and urbane diplomat took a gift of thirty thousand pounds as he might have accepted a superior cigar.

A brief pause ensued, and was ended by another remark from the nobleman: "I thought for the moment of asking your advice—on this question of selling," he continued. "But it will be put more appropriately, perhaps, in this way: Let me leave it entirely in your hands. Whatever you do will be right. I know so little of these things—and you know so much."

Thorpe put out his lips a trifle, and looked away for an instant in frowning abstraction. "If it were put in that way—I think I should sell," he said. "It's all right for me to take long chances—it's my game—but there's no reason why you should risk things. But let me put it in still another way," he added, with the passing gleam of a new thought over the dull surface of his eye. "What do you say to our making the transaction strictly between ourselves? Here are shares to bearer, in the safe there. I say that two thousand of them are yours: that makes them yours. I give you my cheque for thirty thousand pounds—here, now, if you like—and that makes them mine again. The business is finished and done with—inside this room. Neither of us is to say anything about it to a soul. Does that meet your views?"

The diplomat pondered the proposition—again with a lengthened perturbation of the eyelids. "It would be possible to suggest a variety of objections, if one were of a sophistical turn of mind," he said at last, smilingly reflective. "Yet I see no really insuperable obstacle in the path." He thought upon it further, and went on with an enquiring upward glance directed suddenly at Thorpe: "Is there likely to be any very unpleasant hubbub in the press—when it is known that the annual meeting has been postponed?"

Thorpe shook his head with confidence. "No—you need have no fear of that. The press is all right. It's the talk of the City, I'm told—the way I've managed the press. It isn't often that a man has all three of the papers walking the same chalk-line."

The Marquis considered these remarks with a puzzled air. Then he smiled faintly. "I'm afraid we're speaking of different things," he suggested. "Apparently you refer to the financial papers. I had scarcely given them a thought. It does not seem to me that I should mind particularly what they said about me—but I should care a great deal about the other press—the great public press."

"Oh, what do they know about these things?" said Thorpe, lightly. "So far as I can see, they don't know about anything, unless it gets into the police court, or the divorce court, or a court of some kind. They're the funniest sort of papers I ever saw. Seems as if they didn't think anything was safe to be printed until it had been sworn to. Why anybody should be afraid of them is more than I can see."

"Nevertheless," persisted his Lordship, blandly, "I should greatly dislike any public discussion of our Company's affairs. I hope it is quite clear that that can be avoided."

"Absolutely!" Thorpe told him, with reassuring energy. "Why, discussions don't make themselves. Somebody has to kick before anything gets discussed. And who is to kick here? The public who hold the shares are not likely to complain because they've gone up fifteen hundred or two thousand per cent. And who else has any interest in what the Company, as a Company, does?"

"Ah, that is a question which has occurred to me," said Lord Chaldon, "and I shall be glad if it is already answered. The only people likely to 'kick,' as you put it so simply, would be, I take it, Directors and other officers of the Company who find themselves holding a class of shares which does not participate in the present rise. I speak with some confidence—because I was in that position myself until a few minutes ago—and I don't mind confessing that I had brought myself to contemplate the contingency of ultimately being compelled to—to 'kick' a little. Of course, so far as I am concerned, events have put me in a diametrically different frame of mind. If I came prepared—I won't say to curse, but to—to criticize—I certainly remain to bless. But you see my point. I of course do not know what you have done as regards the other members of the Board."

"I don't care about them," said Thorpe, carelessly. "You are the one that I wished to bring in on the ground-floor. The others don't matter. Of course, I shall do something for them; they shan't be allowed to make trouble—even supposing that it would be in their power to make trouble, which isn't the case. But it won't be done by any means on the same scale that—" he paused abruptly, and the two men tacitly completed his sentence in the glance they exchanged.

The Marquis of Chaldon rose, and took up his hat and stick. "If you will post it to me—in a registered letter—my town house—please," he remarked, with a charmingly delicate hesitation over the phrases. Then he put out his hand: "I need not say how fully I appreciate your great kindness to my old friend Fromentin. It was a noble action—one I shall always reflect upon with admiration."

"I hope you won't mention it, though," said Thorpe, as they shook hands; "either that or—or anything else."

"I shall preserve the most guarded—the most diplomatic secrecy," his Lordship assured him, as they walked toward the door.

Thorpe opened this door, and stepped aside, with a half bow, to facilitate the exit of the Marquis, who bent gracious acknowledgment of the courtesy. Then, with an abrupt start of surprise, the two men straightened themselves. Directly in front of them, leaning lightly against the brass-rail which guarded the entrance to the Board Room, stood Lord Plowden.

A certain sense of confusion, unwelcome but inevitable, visibly enveloped this chance meeting. The Marquis blinked very hard as he exchanged a fleeting hand-shake with the younger nobleman, and murmured some indistinguishable commonplaces. Then, with a graceful celerity, which was more than diplomatic, he disappeared. Thorpe, with more difficulty, recovered a sort of stolidity of expression that might pass for composure. He in turn gave his hand to the newcomer, and nodded to him, and achieved a doubtful smile.

"Come in!" he said, haltingly. "Where did you drop from? Glad to see you! How are all your people?"

A moment later the young Viscount was seated in the chair which the elderly Marquis had vacated. He presented therein a figure which, in its way, was perhaps as courtly as the other had been—but the way was widely different. Lord Plowden's fine, lithe form expressed no deference in its easy postures. His handsome face was at no pains to assume conciliatory or ingratiating aspects. His brilliant brown eyes sparkled a confident, buoyant gaze full into the heavy, lethargic countenance of the big man at the desk.

"I haven't bothered you before," he said, tossing his gloves into his hat, and spreading his frock-coat out by its silk lapels. He crossed his legs, and sat back with a comfortable smile. "I knew you were awfully busy—and I kept away as long as I could. But now—well, the truth is—I'm in rather of a hole. I hope you don't mind my coming."

"Why not at all," said Thorpe, laconically. After a momentary pause he added: "The Marquis has just been consulting me about the postponement of the annual meeting. I suppose you agree with us—that it would be better to put it off. There's really nothing to report. Of course, you know more about the situation than he does—between ourselves. The shareholders don't want a meeting; it's enough for them that their shares are worth fifteen or twenty times what they paid for them. And certainly WE don't need a meeting, as things stand now."

"Ah yes—how do things stand now?" asked Lord Plowden, briskly.

"Well,"—Thorpe eyed his visitor with a moody blankness of gaze, his chin once more buried in his collar—"well, everything is going all right, as far as I can see. But, of course, these dealings in our shares in the City have taken up all my time—so that I haven't been able to give any attention to starting up work in Mexico. That being the case, I shall arrange to foot all the bills for this year's expenses—the rent, the Directors' fees and clerk-hire and so on—out of my own pocket. It comes, all told, to about 2,700 pounds—without counting my extra 1,000 pounds as Managing Director. I don't propose to ask for a penny of that, under the circumstances—and I'll even pay the other expenses. So that the Company isn't losing a penny by our not getting to work at the development of the property. No one could ask anything fairer than that.—And are your mother and sister quite well?"

"Oh, very well indeed, thanks," replied the other. He relapsed abruptly into a silence which was plainly preoccupied. Something of the radiant cheerfulness with which his face had beamed seemed to have faded away.

"I'm in treaty for a house and a moor in the Highlands"—Thorpe went on, in a casual tone—"in fact, I'm hesitating between three or four places that all seem to be pretty good—but I don't know whether I can get away much before the twentieth. I hope you can contrive to come while I'm there. I should like it very much if you would bring your mother and sister—and your brother too. I have a nephew about his age—a fine young fellow—who'd be company for him. Why can't you say now that you'll all come?"

Lord Plowden emerged from his brown study with the gleam of some new idea on his face. "I might bring my sister," he said. "My mother hates Scotland. She doesn't go about, either, even in England. But I daresay Winnie would enjoy it immensely. She has a great opinion of you, you know."

"I only saw her that once," Thorpe remarked. Some thought behind his words lent a musing effect to the tone in which they were uttered. The brother's contemplative smile seemed a comment upon this tone.

"Women are curious creatures," he said. "They take fancies and dislikes as swiftly and irresponsibly as cloud-shadows shift and change on a mountain-side in April. But I happen to know that my sister does like you immensely. So does my mother," he added, with another little smile. He continued to regard Thorpe's face, but there was an increasing uncertainty in his glance. "You've put on flesh, haven't you?" he ventured, after a brief pause. There was the implication in his voice and manner that he observed changes which disconcerted him.

"Not much, I guess," replied the other, carelessly. "I've been sticking to the City pretty closely. That's all. There's nothing that a fortnight's rest won't put right. I should like it first-rate to have you and your sister come. I'll let you know which place I decide upon. Very likely you can manage to bring her at the same time that some other ladies will be there. I expect Lady Cressage and Miss Madden, you know."

Lord Plowden stared at his friend. "Are they back? Have they returned to England?" he asked, confusedly.

"Oh, didn't you know?" Thorpe pursued, with an accession of amiability. He visibly had pleasure in the disclosure of the other's ignorance. "They've been in London for two or three weeks. That is, Miss Madden has been taking flying trips to see cathedrals and so on, but Lady Cressage has stayed in town. Their long journeyings have rather done her up." He looked Plowden straight in the eye, and added with an air of deliberation: "I'm rather anxious about her health."

The nobleman frankly abandoned his efforts to maintain an undisturbed front. "You—are—anxious," he repeated, frowning in displeased wonderment.

"Why yes—why not?" demanded Thorpe, with a sudden growl in his voice. As he covered the handsome Viscount with his heavy, intent gaze, impulses of wrath stirred within him. Why should this fop of a lordling put on this air of contemptuous incredulity? "What is there so amazing about that? Why shouldn't I be anxious?"

The peremptory harshness of his manner, and the scowl on his big, lowering face, brought a sort of self-control back to the other. He shrugged his shoulders, with an attempt at nonchalance. "Why not indeed!" he said, as lightly as he could. With hands on knees, he bent forward as if to rise. "But perhaps I'd better come in another day," he suggested, tentatively. "I'm interrupting you."

"No—sit still," Thorpe bade him, and then, with chin settled more determinedly than ever in his cravat, sat eyeing him in a long, dour silence.

Lord Plowden found it impossible to obtain from this massive, apathetic visage any clue to the thoughts working behind it. He chanced to recall the time when he had discussed with Thorpe the meaning and values of this inscrutable expression which the latter's countenance could assume. It had seemed interesting and even admirable to him then—but then he had not foreseen the possibility that he himself might some day confront its adamantine barrier with a sinking heart. All at once he could bear this implacable sphinx-gaze no longer.

"I'm sure some other day would be better," he urged, with an open overture to propitiation in his tone. "You're not in the mood to be bothered with my affairs today."

"As much today as any other," Thorpe answered him, slowly.

The other sat suddenly upright—and then upon a moment's reflection rose to his feet. "I don't in the least know what to make of all this," he said, with nervous precipitancy. "If I've offended you in any way, say so, and I will apologize at once. But treatment of this sort passes my comprehension."

Thorpe in truth did not himself comprehend it much more clearly. Some strange freak of wilfulness impelled him to pursue this unintelligible persecution. "I've said nothing about any offense," he declared, in a hard, deliberate voice. "It is your own word. All the same—I mention the name of a lady—a lady, mind you, whom I met under your own roof—and you strike attitudes and put on airs as if—as if I wasn't good enough!"

"Oh, upon my word, that's all rubbish!" the other broke in. "Nothing could have been further from my thoughts, I assure you. Quite naturally I was surprised for the moment at a bit of unexpected news—but that was all. I give you my word that was all."

"Very well, then," Thorpe consented grudgingly to mutter.

He continued his sullen scrutiny of the man standing before him, noting how the vivacity of his bearing had deteriorated in these few minutes. He had cut such a gallant figure when he entered the room, with his sparkling eye and smile, his almost jaunty manner, his superior tailor's plumage—and now he was such a crestfallen and wilted thing! Remembering their last conversation together—remembering indeed how full of liking for this young nobleman he had been when they last met—Thorpe paused to wonder at the fact that he felt no atom of pity for him now. What was his grievance? What had Plowden done to provoke this savage hostility? Thorpe could not tell. He knew only that unnamed forces dragged him forward to hurt and humiliate his former friend. Obscurely, no doubt, there was something about a woman in it. Plowden had been an admirer of Lady Cressage. There was her father's word for it that if there had been money enough he would have wished to marry her. There had been, as well, the General's hint that if the difficulty of Plowden's poverty were removed, he might still wish to marry her—a hint which Thorpe discovered to be rankling with a sudden new soreness in his mind. Was that why he hated Plowden? No—he said to himself that it was not. He was going to marry Lady Cressage himself. Her letter, signifying delicately her assent to his proposal, had come to him that very morning—was in his pocket now. What did he care about the bye-gone aspirations of other would-be suitors? And, as for Plowden, he had not even known of her return to London. Clearly there remained no communications of any sort between them. It was not at all on her account, he assured himself, that he had turned against Plowden. But what other reason could there be? He observed his visitor's perturbed and dejected mien with a grim kind of satisfaction—but still he could not tell why.

"This is all terribly important to me," the nobleman said, breaking the unpleasant silence. His voice was surcharged with earnestness. "Apparently you are annoyed with something—what it may be I can't for the life of me make out. All I can say is"—and he broke off with a helpless gesture which seemed to imply that he feared to say anything.

Thorpe put out his lips. "I don't know what you mean," he said, brusquely.

"What I mean"—the other echoed, with bewildered vagueness of glance. "I'm all at sea. I don't in the least grasp the meaning of anything. You yourself volunteered the declaration that you would do great things for me. 'We are rich men together'—those were your own words. I urged you at the time to go slowly—to consider carefully whether you weren't being too generous. I myself said to you that you were ridiculously exaggerating what you called your obligation to me. It was you who insisted upon presenting me with 100,000 shares."

"Well, they are here ready for you," said Thorpe, with calculated coldness. "You can have them whenever you please. I promised them to you, and set them aside for you. You can take them away with you now, if you like. What are you kicking up this fuss for, then? Upon my word!—you come here and suggest to me that I made promises to you which I've broken!"

Plowden looked hard at him, as he turned over in his mind the purport of these words. "I see what you are doing," he said then. "You turn over to me 100,000 vendor's deferred shares. Thanks! I have already 1,000 of them. I keep them in the same box with my father's Confederate bonds."

"What the hell do you mean?" Thorpe broke in with explosive warmth, lifting himself in his chair.

"Oh, come now, Thorpe," Plowden retorted, "let's get this talk on an intelligent, common-sense footing." He had regained something of his self-control, and keenly put forward now to help him all his persuasive graces of eye and speech. He seated himself once more. "I'm convinced that you want to be good to me. Of course you do! If I've seemed here for a minute or two to think otherwise, it was because I misunderstood things. Don't let there be any further misunderstandings! I apologize for doing you the momentary injustice of suspecting that you were going to play off the vendor's shares on me. Of course you said it—but it was a joke."

"There seems to be a joke somewhere, sure enough," said Thorpe, in dryly metallic tones—"but it isn't me who's the joker. I told you you should have 100,000 of my 400,000 shares, didn't I? I told you that in so many words. Very well, what more do you want? Here they are for you! I keep my promise to the letter. But you—you seem to think you're entitled to make a row. What do you mean by it?"

"Just a little word"—interposed Plowden, with strenuous calmness of utterance—"what you say may be true enough—yes, I admit it is true as far as it goes. But was that what either of us had in our minds at the time? You know it wasn't! You had just planned a coup on the Stock Exchange which promised you immense rewards. I helped you to pass a bogus allotment through our Board—without which your coup wouldn't have been worth a farthing. You were enthusiastically grateful to me then. In the excitement of the moment you promised me a quarter of all you should make. 'WE ARE BOTH RICH MEN!' I remember those very words of yours. They have never been out of my mind. We discussed the things that we would each do, when we came into this wealth. It was taken for granted in all our talk that your making money meant also my making money. That was the complete understanding—here in London, and while you were at my house. You know it as well as I do. And I refuse to suppose that you seriously intend to sit there and pretend that you meant to give me nothing but an armful of waste paper. It would be too monstrous!"

Thorpe rapped with his nails on the desk, to point the force of his rejoinder: "How do you account for the fact, my Lord"—he gave his words a chillingly scornful precision of utterance—"that I distinctly mentioned 400,000 vendor's shares of mine, 100,000 of which I promised to turn over to you? Those were the specific terms, were they not? You don't deny it? Then what are you talking about?"

"I account for it in this way"—said Plowden, after a moment's baffled reflection: "at that time you yourself hadn't grasped the difference between the two classes of shares. You thought the vendor's shares would play a part in the game. Ah! I see I've hit the mark! That was the way of it!—And now here, Thorpe! Let all that's been said be bye-gones! I don't want any verbal triumph over you. You don't want to wrong me—and yourself too—by sticking to this quibble about vendor's shares. You intended to be deuced good to me—and what have I done that you should round on me now? I haven't bothered you before. I came today only because things are particularly rotten, financially, just now. And I don't even want to hold you to a quarter—I leave that entirely to you. But after all that's been said and done—I put it to you as one man to another—you are morally bound to help me out."

"How do you mean?—'all that's been said and done'?" Thorpe asked the question in some confusion of moods. Perhaps it was the ethical force of Lord Plowden's appeal, perhaps only a recurring sense of his earlier affection for the man—but for the moment he wavered in his purpose.

The peer flushed a little, as he looked at the floor, revolving possible answers to this query. His ear had been quick to seize the note of hesitation in Thorpe's tone. He strove anxiously to get together considerations which should tip the fluttering balance definitely his way.

"Well," he began slowly, "I hardly know how to put it. Of course there was, in the first place, the immense expectation of fortune which you gave me, and which I'm afraid I've more than lived up to. And then, of course, others shared my expectations. It wasn't a thing one could very well keep to oneself. My mother and my sister—especially my sister—they were wonderfully excited about it. You are quite the hero in their eyes. And then—you remember that talk we had, in which you said I could help you—socially, you know. I did it a little, just as a start, but of course there's no end to what could be done. You've been too busy heretofore, but we can begin now whenever you like. I don't mind telling you—I've had some thoughts of a possible marriage for you. In point of blood and connections it would be such a match as a commoner hasn't made before in my memory—a highly-cultivated and highly-bred young lady of rank—and settlements could be made so that a considerable quantity of land would eventually come to your son. I needn't tell you that land stands for much more than money, if you happen to set your mind on a baronetcy or a peerage. Of course—I need scarcely say—I mention this marriage only as something which may or may not attract you,—it is quite open to you to prefer another,—but there is hardly anything of that sort in which I and my connections could not be of use to you."

Even more by the tone and inflection of these words than by the phrases themselves, Thorpe divined that he was being offered the hand of the Hon. Winifred Plowden in marriage. He recalled vividly the fact that once the shadow of some such thought had floated through his own brain; there had been a moment—it seemed curiously remote, like a dream-phantom from some previous state of existence—when he had dwelt with personal interest upon her inheritance from long lines of noblemen, and her relation to half the peerage. Then, swiftly, illogically, he disliked the brother of this lady more than ever.

"All that is talking in the air," he said, with abrupt decision. "I see nothing in it. You shall have your vendor's shares, precisely as I promised you. I don't see how you can possibly ask for anything more." He looked at the other's darkling face for a moment, and then rose with unwieldy deliberation. "If you're so hard up though," he continued, coldly, "I don't mind doing this much for you. I'll exchange the thousand vendor's shares you already hold the ones I gave you to qualify you at the beginning—for ordinary shares. You can sell those for fifteen thousand pounds cash. In fact, I'll buy them of you now. I'll give you a cheque for the amount. Do you want it?"

Lord Plowden, red-faced and frowning, hesitated for a fraction of time. Then in constrained silence he nodded, and Thorpe, leaning ponderously over the desk, wrote out the cheque. His Lordship took it, folded it up, and put it in his pocket without immediate comment.

"Then this is the end of things, is it?" he asked, after an awkward silence, in a voice he strove in vain to keep from shaking.

"What things?" said the other.

Plowden shrugged his shoulders, framed his lips to utter something which he decided not to say, and at last turned on his heel. "Good day," he called out over his shoulder, and left the room with a flagrant air of hostility.

Thorpe, wandering about the apartment, stopped after a time at the cabinet, and helped himself to a drink. The thing most apparent to him was that of set purpose he had converted a friend into an enemy. Why had he done this? He asked himself the question in varying forms, over his brandy and soda, but no convincing answer came. He had done it because he had felt like doing it. It was impossible to trace motives further than that.



CHAPTER XVIII

"EDITH will be down in a very few moments," Miss Madden assured Thorpe that evening, when he entered the drawing-room of the house she had taken in Grafton Street.

He looked into her eyes and smiled, as he bowed over the hand she extended to him. His glance expressed with forceful directness his thought: "Ah, then she has told you!"

The complacent consciousness of producing a fine effect in evening-clothes had given to Mr. Stormont Thorpe habitually now a mildness of manner, after the dressing hour, which was lacking to his deportment in the day-time. The conventional attire of ceremony, juggled in the hands of an inspired tailor, had been brought to lend to his ponderous figure a dignity, and even something of a grace, which the man within assimilated and made his own. It was an equable and rather amiable Thorpe whom people encountered after nightfall—a gentleman who looked impressive enough to have powerful performances believed of him, yet seemed withal an approachable and easy-going person. Men who saw him at midnight or later spoke of him to their womenkind with a certain significant reserve, in which trained womankind read the suggestion that the "Rubber King" drank a good deal, and was probably not wholly nice in his cups.

This, however, could not be said to render him less interesting in any eyes. There was indeed about it the implication of a generous nature, or at the least of a blind side—and it is not unpleasant to discover these attributes in a new man who has made his half-million, and has, or may have, countless favours to bestow.

It was as if his tongue instead of his eyes had uttered the exclamation—"Ah, then she has told you!"—for Miss Madden took it as having been spoken. "I'm not disposed to pretend that I'm overjoyed about it, you know," she said to him bluntly, as their hands dropped, and they stood facing each other. "If I said I congratulated you, it would be only the emptiest form. And I hate empty forms."

"Why should you think that I won't make a good husband?" Thorpe asked the question with a good-natured if peremptory frankness which came most readily to him in the presence of this American lady, herself so outspoken and masterful.

"I don't know that I specially doubt it," she replied. "I suppose any man has in him the makings of what is called a good husband—if the conditions are sufficiently propitious."

"Well then—what's the matter with the conditions?" he demanded, jocosely.

Miss Madden shrugged her shoulders slightly. Thorpe noted the somewhat luxuriant curves of these splendid shoulders, and the creamy whiteness of the skin, upon which, round the full throat, a chain of diamonds lay as upon satin—and recalled that he had not seen her before in what he phrased to himself as so much low-necked dress. The deep fire-gleam in her broad plaits of hair gave a wonderful brilliancy to this colouring of brow and throat and bosom. He marvelled at himself for discovering only now that she also was beautiful—and then thrilled with pride at the thought that henceforth his life might be passed altogether among beautiful women, radiant in gems and costly fabrics, who would smile upon him at his command.

"Oh, I have no wish to be a kill-joy," she protested. "I'm sure I hope all manner of good results from the—the experiment."

"I suppose that's what it comes to," he said, meditatively. "It's all an experiment. Every marriage in the world must be that—neither more nor less."

"With all the experience of the ages against its coming out right." She had turned to move toward a chair, but looked now over her shoulder at him. "Have you ever seen what seemed to you an absolutely happy marriage in your life?"

Upon reflection he shook his head. "I don't recall one on the spur of the minute," he confessed. "Not the kind, I mean, that you read about in books. But I've seen plenty where the couple got along together in a good, easy, comfortable sort of way, without a notion of any sort of unpleasantness. It's people who marry too young who do most of the fighting, I imagine. After people have got to a sensible age, and know what they want and what they can get along without, why then there's no reason for any trouble. We don't start out with any school-boy and school-girl moonshine."

"Oh, there's a good deal to be said for the moonshine," she interrupted him, as she sank upon the sofa.

"Why certainly," he assented, amiably, as he stood looking down at her. "The more there is of it, the better—if it comes naturally, and people know enough to understand that it is moonshine, and isn't the be-all and end-all of everything."

"There's a lover for you!" Miss Madden cried, with mirth and derision mingled in her laugh.

"Don't you worry about me," he told her. "I'm a good enough lover, all right. And when you come to that, if Edith is satisfied, I don't precisely see what——"

"What business it is of mine?" she finished the sentence for him. "You're entirely right. As you say, IF she's satisfied, no one else has anything to do with it."

"But have you got any right to assume that she isn't satisfied?" he asked her with swift directness—"or any reason for supposing it?"

Miss Madden shook her head, but the negation seemed qualified by the whimsical smile she gave him. "None whatever," she said—and on the instant the talk was extinguished by the entrance of Lady Cressage.

Thorpe's vision was flooded with the perception of his rare fortune as he went to meet her. He took the hand she offered, and looked into the smile of her greeting, and could say nothing. Her beauty had gathered to it new forces in his eyes—forces which dazzled and troubled his glance. The thought that this exquisite being—this ineffable compound of feeling and fine nerves and sweet wisdom and wit and loveliness—belonged to him seemed too vast for the capacity of his mind. He could not keep himself from trembling a little, and from diverting to a screen beyond her shoulder a gaze which he felt to be overtly dimmed and embarrassed.

"I have kept you waiting," she murmured.

The soft sound of her voice came to his ears as from a distance. It bore an unfamiliar note, upon the strangeness of which he dwelt for a detached instant. Then its meaning broke in upon his consciousness from all sides, and lighted up his heavy face with the glow of a conqueror's self-centred smile. He bent his eyes upon her, and noted with a controlled exaltation how her glance in turn deferred to his, and fluttered beneath it, and shrank away. He squared his big shoulders and lifted his head. Still holding her jewelled hand in his, he turned and led her toward the sofa. Halting, he bowed with an exaggerated genuflection and flourish of his free hand to Miss Madden, the while he flashed at her a glance at once of challenge and of deprecation. Through the sensitized contact of the other hand, he felt that the woman he held bowed also, and in his own spirit of confused defiance and entreaty. The laugh he gave then seemed to dispel the awkwardness which had momentarily hung over the mocking salutation.

Miss Madden laughed too. "Oh, I surrender," she said. "You drag congratulations from me."

Some quality in the tone of this ungracious speech had the effect of putting the party at its ease. Lady Cressage seated herself beside her friend on the sofa, and gently, abstractedly, patted one of her hands. Thorpe remained on his feet, looking down at the pair with satisfied cheerfulness. He tool, a slip of paper from his pocket, to support a statement he was making.

"I'm forever telling you what a strain the City is on a man in my position," he said—"and today I had the curiosity to keep an account of what happened. Here it is. I had thirty callers. Of those, how many do you suppose came to see me on my own business? Just eight. That is to say, their errands were about investments of mine, but most of them managed to get in some word about axes of their own to grind. All the rest made no pretence at all of thinking about anybody but themselves. I've classified them, one by one, here.

"First, there were six men who wanted me to take shares of one sort or another, and I had to more or less listen to what they tried to make out their companies were like. They were none of them any good. Eight different fellows came to me with schemes that haven't reached the company stage. One had a scheme for getting possession of a nigger republic in the West Indies by raising a loan, and then repudiating all the previous loans. Another wanted me to buy a paper for him, in which he was to support all my enterprises. Another wanted to start a bank—I apparently to find the money, and he the brains. One chap wanted me to finance a theatrical syndicate—he had a bag full of photographs of an actress all eyes and teeth and hair,—and another chap had a scheme all worked out for getting a concession from Spain for one of the Caroline Islands, and putting up a factory there for making porpoise-hide leather.

"Then there were three inventors—let's see, here they are—one with a coiled wire spring for scissors inside a pocket-knife, and one with a bottle, the whole top of which unscrews instead of having a cork or stopper, and one with an electrical fish-line, a fine wire inside the silk, you know, which connects with some battery when a fish bites, and rings a bell, and throws out hooks in various directions, and does all sorts of things.

"Well then, there was a man who wanted me to take the chairmanship of a company, and one who wanted me to guarantee an overdraft at his bank, and two who wanted to borrow money on stock, and one parson-fellow who tried to stick me for a subscription to some Home or other he said he had for children in the country. He was the worst bounder of the lot.

"Well, there's twenty-seven people—and twenty of them strangers to me, and not worth a penny to me, and all trying to get money out of me. Isn't that a dog's life for one?"

"I don't know," said Miss Madden, contemplatively. "A lady may have twice that number of callers in an afternoon—quite as great strangers to all intents and purposes—and not even have the satisfaction of discovering that they had any object whatever in calling. At least your people had some motive: the grey matter in their brain was working. And besides, one of them might have had something to say which you would value. I don't think that ever happens among a lady's callers; does it, Edith?"

Edith smiled, pleasantly and yet a little wistfully, but said nothing.

"At any rate," Thorpe went on, with a kind of purpose gathering in his eyes, "none of those fellows cost me anything, except in time. But then I had three callers, almost in a bunch, and one of them took out of me thirty thousand pounds, and another fifteen thousand pounds, and the third—an utter stranger he was—he got an absolute gratuity of ten thousand pounds, besides my consent to a sale which, if I had refused it, would have stood me in perhaps forty or fifty thousand pounds more. You ladies may thank your stars you don't have that kind of callers!"

The sound of these figures in the air brought a constrained look to the faces of the women. Seemingly they confronted a subject which was not to their liking. The American, however, after a moment's pause, took it up in an indifferent manner.

"You speak of an 'absolute gratuity.' I know nothing of London City methods—but isn't ten thousand pounds a gratuity on a rather large scale?"

Thorpe hesitated briefly, then smiled, and, with slow deliberation, drew up a chair and seated himself before them. "Perhaps I don't mind telling you about it," he began, and paused again. "I had a letter in my mail this morning," he went on at last, giving a sentimental significance to both tone and glance—"a letter which changed everything in the world for me, and made me the proudest and happiest man above ground. And I put that letter in my pocket, right here on the left side—and it's there now, for that matter"—he put his hand to his breast, as if under the impulse to verify his words by the production of the missive, and then stopped and flushed.

The ladies, watching him, seemed by their eyes to condone the mawkishness of the demonstration which had tempted him. There was indeed a kind of approving interest in their joint regard, which he had not experienced before.

"I had it in my pocket," he resumed, with an accession of mellow emotion in his voice, "and none of the callers ever got my thoughts very far from that letter. And one of these was an old man—a French banker who must be seventy years old, but dyes his hair a kind of purple black—and it seems that his nephew had got the firm into a terrible kind of scrape, selling 2,000 of my shares when he hadn't got them to sell and couldn't get them—and the old man came to beg me to let him out at present market figures. He got Lord Chaldon—he's my Chairman, you know—to bring him, and introduce him as his friend, and plead for him—but I don't think all that, by itself, would have budged me an atom. But then the old man told how he was just able to scrape together money enough to buy the shares he needed, at the ruling price, and he happened to mention that his niece's marriage portion would have to be sacrificed. Well, then, do you know, that letter in my pocket said something to me....And—well, that's the story. The girl' s portion, I wormed it out of him, was ten thousand...and I struck that much off the figure that I allowed him to buy his shares, and save his firm, for....It was all the letter that did it, mind you!"

He concluded the halting narrative amid a marked silence. The ladies looked at him and at each other, but they seemed surprised out of their facility of comment. In this kind of flustered hush, the door was opened and dinner was announced.

Miss Madden welcomed the diversion by rising with ostentatious vigour. "I will take myself out," she declared, with cheerful promptness leading the way. Lady Cressage took the arm Thorpe offered her, and gave no token of comprehending that her wrist was being caressingly pressed against his side as they moved along.

At the little table shining in the centre of the dark, cool dining-room, talk moved idly about among general topics. A thunderstorm broke over the town, at an early stage of the dinner, and the sound of the rushing downpour through the open windows, and the breath of freshness which stirred the jaded air, were pleasanter than any speech. Thoughts roved intuitively country-ward, where the long-needed rain would be dowering the landscape with new life—where the earth at sunrise would be green again, and buoyant in reawakened energy, and redolent with the perfumes of sweetest summer. They spoke of the fields and the moors with the longing of tired town-folk in August.

"Oh, when I get away"—said Thorpe, fervently, "it seems to me that I don't want ever to come back. These last few weeks have got terribly on my nerve. And really—why should I come back? I've been asking myself the question—more today than ever before. Of course everything has been different today. But if I'm to get any genuine good out of my—my fortune—I must pull away from the City altogether sometime—and why not now? Of course, some important things are still open—and they have to be watched night and day—but after all, Semple—that's my Broker—he could do it for me. At the most, it won't last more than another six weeks. There is a settlement-day next week, the 15th, and another a fortnight after, on the 29th, and another on September 12th. Well, those three days, if they're worked as I intend they shall be, and nothing unforeseen happens, will bring in over four hundred thousand pounds, and close the 'corner' in Rubber Consols for good. Then I need never see the City again, thank God! And for that matter—why, what is six weeks? It's like tomorrow. I'm going to act as if I were free already. The rain fills me full of the country. Will you both come with me tomorrow or next day, and see the Pellesley place in Hertfordshire? By the photographs it's the best thing in the market. The newest parts of it are Tudor—and that's what I've always wanted."

"How unexpected you are!" commented Miss Madden. "You are almost the last person I should have looked to for a sentiment about Tudor foundations."