“Not at all, my dear boy, not at all. As a matter of fact, I shall be doing a very good turn to another pal of mine at the same time.” He filled his glass. “This--” he paused to sip--“this pal of mine has a large holding of Wildcats. He wants to realize in order to put the money into something else, in which he is more personally interested.” Mr. Windlebird paused. His mind dwelt for a moment on his overdrawn current account at the bank. “In which he is more personally interested,” he repeated dreamily. “But of course you couldn't unload thirty pounds' worth of Wildcats in the public market.” “I quite see that,” assented Roland. “It might, however, be done by private negotiation,” he said. “I must act very cautiously. Give me your check for the thirty thousand to-night, and I will run up to town to-morrow morning, and see what I can do.” * * * * * He did it. What hidden strings he pulled, what levers he used, Roland did not know. All Roland knew was that somehow, by some subtle means, Mr. Windlebird brought it off. Two days later his host handed him twenty thousand one-pound shares in the Wildcat Reef Gold-mine. “There, my boy,” he said. “It's awfully kind of you, Mr. Windlebird.” “My dear boy, don't mention it. If you're satisfied, I'm sure I am.” Mr. Windlebird always spoke the truth when he could. He spoke it now. It seemed to Roland, as the days went by, that nothing could mar the pleasant, easy course of life at the Windlebirds. The fine weather, the beautiful garden, the pleasant company--all these things combined to make this sojourn an epoch in his life. He discovered his mistake one lovely afternoon as he sat smoking idly on the terrace. Mrs. Windlebird came to him, and a glance was enough to show Roland that something was seriously wrong. Her face was drawn and tired. A moment before, Roland had been thinking life perfect. The only crumpled rose-leaf had been the absence of an evening paper. Mr. Windlebird would bring one back with him when he returned from the city, but Roland wanted one now. He was a great follower of county cricket, and he wanted to know how Surrey was faring against Yorkshire. But even this crumpled rose-leaf had been smoothed out, for Johnson, the groom, who happened to be riding into the nearest town on an errand, had promised to bring one back with him. He might appear at any moment now. The sight of his hostess drove all thoughts of sport out of his mind. She was looking terribly troubled. It flashed across Roland that both his host and hostess had been unusually silent at dinner the night before; and later, passing Mr. Windlebird's room on his way to bed, he had heard their voices, low and agitated. Could they have had some bad news? “Mr. Bleke, I want to speak to you.” Roland moved like a sympathetic cow, and waited to hear more.