"Well, just one glass wouldn't be amiss, my boy. What shall it be?" "Can't beat a glass o' port, old man. What do you say?" "I say ditto, my dear boy," and the butler, smiling, drew out his keys, unlocked a cupboard, lifted out a cobwebby bottle with a dab of whitewash on its end, and with a great deal of ceremony drew the cork, while Arthur fetched and gave a finishing touch to a couple of glasses as the cork was presented to him. But it was only to smell, and Arthur inhaled the fragrance and sighed. Then the rich wine came gurgling out into the glasses, and these latter were raised. "Well, old man, here's success to speculation," said Arthur. "Suck-cess to speculation," said the butler, and the glasses were slowly drained. Lips were smacked and the glasses refilled. "A very fine wine, Orthur." "Tip-top. How much is there of it?" "Over six hundred dozen, my lad." "Well, we'll help 'em drink it, old man. It's fine. Sets a fellow thinking. Now, look here. We're not going to stand still, eh?" "Not a bit of it, dear boy. We'll make our hay while the sun shines." "Ah, yes," said the butler, filling another glass of the port; "and some people shoot a long time before folks get hit, eh, Orthur?" "That's so, guv'nor; you've only to keep going, and the chances are that they can't hit you at all." The result of the emptying of that bottle of wine was that the gold epergne and several other pieces of plate went into the charge of the none too particular descendant of the Medici, a gentleman who, having been exceedingly unfortunate in carrying on what he called a square trade, had of late gone in for the risky and round, with the result that he was making money fast, and calming his conscience by chuckling to himself and saying-- "What harm is there, so long as you're not found out?" That evening Mr Roach returned with a sufficient amount to dip slightly into the new speculation in which the Clareboroughs were engaged, but he did not sleep any better for that. He dreamed about brokers who dealt in stock, and by a steady descent of thought he went on to brokers who put executions into houses. They suggested debtors' prisons--debtors' prisons brought up Holloway, and Holloway the criminal side--the criminal side, penal Portland, with irons, and costumes ornamented with broad arrows, shortcut hair, chain-gangs, and an awakening in a violent perspiration. Mr Roach had no appetite next morning, but on behalf of footman Arthur and himself, a couple of hundred pounds were invested in the shares of the gaseous company which had nothing whatever to do with gas. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. MAN MASTERS. "At last!" muttered Chester, as he stood, pale and careworn, leaning upon the iron rail in the Row, watching the carriages slowly filing by, or stopping from time to time.