"He allows me a paltry three hundred a year, on the condition that I live in Newhaven with a beastly solicitor fellow to whom he made me sign articles!" "That seems very hard, sir." "Hard, Brown," he cried, his eyes agleam, "Hard! you call it hard! Why the old monster is a millionaire, and as I told you before I am his only living relative!" I put on an expression of shocked sympathy. "It is almost incredible!" I gasped. He gave me a grateful look. "It is true, though!" he declared, "true as gospel. And the only excuse he could rake up for doing it was that I outran the constable a bit at Oxford. He's the meanest old skin-flint in the United Kingdom!" "I wish I could help you, sir," I murmured in my most reverential manner. "It seems very hard and really wrong, sir, that a nice handsome young gentleman like you, if you'll pardon me for speaking so, sir, to your face, should be tied up in a little village like Newhaven when you might be enjoying yourself and seeing life in London and Paris, sir!" "As I ought to be," he cried hotly, evidently stirred to anger at my picture of his misfortune. "It's a cursed shame, Brown, a cursed shame!" "It is indeed, sir. I only wish I could help you, sir." He gave me a thoughtful look. "You never know," he muttered, "the mouse helped the lion!" I nearly laughed in his face, but controlling the impulse I said instead--"And with the best of good will, sir!" "You're a damned good fellow, Brown!" he cried with energy. "And when I am Sir Sefton Dagmar I shall not forget you." His voice sank into a low confidential key. "By the way, Brown, there is a small service you might render me." "Anything," I answered eagerly, "I'd do anything for _you_, sir!" He grinned with pleasure, the callow youth. "It's nothing much," he muttered. "Only I want you to tell me exactly how your master is--the state of his health, I mean. I can never get any satisfaction out of him, and I have a lot of friends who want to know." He sighed and frowned. _Post obit_ bond-holders--was my reflection. "I don't think he will live very long, sir," I whispered, looking nervously about me. "At night he coughs something dreadful, sir, and he just lives on medicines." Mr. Sefton Dagmar's face looked for a moment like that of a happy cherub. "Do you really think so, Brown?" he cried excitedly. "I'm sure of it, sir." "Well, see here, Brown, when he dies, I'll make you my man, if you like!" "Will you really, sir?" I tried to look extravagantly delighted. "Yes--and I'll give you twice as much screw as you get now, whatever he gives you. But for that I'll expect you to do some things for me in the meanwhile." He looked me keenly in the eyes. "Anything at all, sir," I protested. "Very good. I want you to drop me a line every week to tell me how he is, and if he takes any sudden turn for the worse you may send me a telegram." "Certainly, sir. Is that all?" "No!" He glanced anxiously towards the door. "No one can hear us, can they?"