At Liverpool, however, the Adelphi consoled him. We dined luxuriously in the Louis Quinze restaurant, as only millionaires can dine, and proceeded next day by Pullman car to London. We found Amelia dissolved in tears at a domestic cataclysm. It seemed that Cesarine had given notice. Charles was scarcely home again when he began to bethink him of the least among his investments. Like many other wealthy men, my respected connection is troubled more or less, in the background of his consciousness, by a pervading dread that he will die a beggar. To guard against this misfortune--which I am bound to admit nobody else fears for him--he invested, several years ago, a sum of two hundred thousand pounds in Consols, to serve as a nest-egg in case of the collapse of Golcondas and South Africa generally. It is part of the same amiable mania, too, that he will not allow the dividend-warrants on this sum to be sent to him by post, but insists, after the fashion of old ladies and country parsons, upon calling personally at the Bank of England four times a year to claim his interest. He is well known by sight to not a few of the clerks; and his appearance in Threadneedle Street is looked forward to with great regularity within a few weeks of each lawful quarter-day. So, on the morning after our arrival in town, Charles observed to me, cheerfully, "Sey, I must run into the City to-day to claim my dividends. There are two quarters owing." I accompanied him in to the Bank. Even that mighty official, the beadle at the door, unfastened the handle of the millionaire's carriage. The clerk who received us smiled and nodded. "How much?" he asked, after the stereotyped fashion. "Two hundred thousand," Charles answered, looking affable. The clerk turned up the books. "Paid!" he said, with decision. "What's your game, sir, if I may ask you?" "Paid!" Charles echoed, drawing back. The clerk gazed across at him. "Yes, Sir Charles," he answered, in a somewhat severe tone. "You must remember you drew a quarter's dividend from myself--last week--at this very counter." Charles stared at him fixedly. "Show me the signature," he said at last, in a slow, dazed fashion. I suspected mischief. The clerk pushed the book across to him. Charles examined the name close. "Colonel Clay again!" he cried, turning to me with a despondent air. "He must have dressed the part. I shall die in the workhouse, Sey! That man has stolen away even my nest-egg from me." I saw it at a glance. "Mrs. Quackenboss!" I put in. "Those portraits on the Etruria! It was to help him in his make-up! You recollect, she sketched your face and figure at all possible angles." "And last quarter's?" Charles inquired, staggering. The clerk turned up the entry. "Drawn on the 10th of July," he answered, carelessly, as if it mattered nothing. Then I knew why the Colonel had run across to England.