be near his work at Durham; and as usual, during these London visits, was in an exceedingly irritable state of temper, when among his letters he received one signed Robert Barton. Its contents were brief. “PRIVATE ENQUIRY OFFICE. “SIR,—I am in possession of information of the last importance to yourself, and which I wish an early opportunity of discussing with you. I shall be at this office from eleven until one every day, or will call upon you at any time for which you may choose to make an appointment.” Fred Bingham’s pale face became even whiter than usual. “What the devil does this fellow want to see me about? Business of the last importance;” and his thoughts at once flew to the matter of his cousin Frank. “Pshaw!” he exclaimed, “that is out of the question. It must be that he has heard that some one is not solvent, or that some of my bills perhaps have got into bad hands. At any rate, I must go and see the fellow.” Then he put Mr. Barton’s letter aside, opened several of the others, some of which he read through carefully, others threw aside at a glance. The last he opened was from his wife. “Bah!” he said, impatiently, “what quantities of twaddle women write, as if any one was going to read them through,” and he tore the letter up and threw the fragments into a waste-paper basket. He drew his desk to him and wrote several letters; then he looked at his watch. “Eleven o’clock. I will go up to the City at once, and see this Barton. I shall only worry about it until I know what it is. Mary,” he said sharply, as the servant entered, “fetch a hansom, and look sharp about it.” Mr. Barton was alone in his den when the clerk brought in Mr. Bingham’s card. “Show him in,” and as the clerk left the room, Mr. Barton rose, took a small bundle of papers from an iron safe, and placed them in a drawer by his side. Fred Bingham entered. “Take a seat, Mr. Bingham.” “I have received a note from you this morning,” Fred said shortly, “and thought it as well to call at once.” “Quite as well,” Mr. Barton said slowly, rubbing his chin and examining his visitor’s face, as if to read his character; “quite as well,” he repeated rather more rapidly, as if his survey had been a satisfactory one. “Yes. There is nothing like attending to business at once. That has always been my rule.” Fred Bingham made a gesture of impatience. “If you will tell me what you want,” he said, “I shall be glad. I have business of importance to attend to.” “No doubt, no doubt, Mr. Bingham, but hardly I imagine of such importance as the present, as you will I am sure allow when you have heard me. Now, Mr. Bingham,” he went on sharply and decisively, as if he had now quite made up his mind as to his visitor’s character, and the conclusion he had arrived at were satisfactory, “we will proceed to business. We are both of us men of the world.”