"That's curious," said Renton, still reflective. "You being a widower, I thought, maybe . . . But as between friends, you'll understand, I'm not asking." "I'll tell you the gist of it later," said Farrell. "It started over politics." "So? . . . We've a way with that trouble over here," said Renton. "Now you mention it, I'd read in the London _Times_ that you were running for municipal government, and then somehow you seemed to fade out. . . . I wondered why. . . . Is that part of the story?" Farrell answered that it was. They were seated in Renton's private office, and Renton picked up a small square block of wood from his desk. It looked like a paper-weight. "I've a certain amount of--well, we'll call it influence--hereabouts, if any man happens to be troubling you," he suggested musingly, and glanced at Farrell. "But you're not taking it that way, I see." Farrell nodded. "You just want to be cleared out. . . . That's all right. You shall tell me all about it later, boss--any time that suits you." He handed the paperweight across to Farrell. "Ever come across that kind of wood?" he asked. Farrell examined it. "Never," he answered. "It looks like mahogany--if 'tweren't for the colour. Dyed, is it?" "Not a bit. I could show you with a chisel in two minutes. . . . But you're right. Mahogany it is, and cuts like mahogany. . . . I keep a high-class warehouse of stuff lower down-town, and there I'll show you a log of it, seven-by-four. It's from Costa Rica. Would you care to prospect? . . . I don't mind sharing secrets with the old firm, as you always dealt with me honourably and we're both growing old enough to remember old kindness." "I'd make a holiday of it," said Farrell heartily, fingering the wood. "Comes from Costa Rica, eh?" "There's not much of it going, even there," said Renton. "Not enough, I'm afraid, to start a fashionable craze. It was brought to me, as a sample, by an enterprising skipper from Puerto Limon, and I was going to send back a man with him, to prospect. . . . But it's not detracting from his character to say that he can't tell mahogany from walnut with his finger-tips in the dark--as _you_ could, boss. If it's a holiday you want, with a trifle of high cabinet-science thrown in, what about taking his place?" "It's the loveliest stuff," said Farrell, rapt, fingering the wood delicately. "Well, now, that makes me feel good, having my old master's word for it, that taught me all I know. Look at it sideways and catch the tints under the light. 'Opaline mahogany' we'll call it. Come down-town with me, and I'll show you the baulk of it. It don't grow big. . . . What about cash?" "I've a plenty for the present," Farrell assured him. "Clearing's my only difficulty." "You trust to me, and I'll oblige," said his old employee.