to make the victory decisive. He was a business man, and, considering my circumstances, nothing was to be gained by outward display. Indeed, a plain dressing for the occasion—blue serge, blue foulard tie with white spots, and a bowler—was absolutely right, and did not necessarily suggest a Bond Street wardrobe in reserve, rendered temporarily useless for lack of good boots. I was as nervous as I have ever been when I mounted in the lift to the second floor of the tall block of buildings in the City where Mr. Gascoyne’s offices were situated. I could not help reflecting that young Gascoyne must have ascended in the same lift times without number. It was not for me, however, to indulge in such reflections, and I shook off any morbid cobwebs from my thoughts and stepped into the outer office with a subtle and affected consciousness of innocence which I was by constant practice enabling myself to assume at will. The clerk took my card and noted the name with a look of intelligence. “Oh yes, Mr. Gascoyne is expecting you, but there are two gentlemen with him now. Please take a seat. I will tell him you are here.” He went to a speaking-tube and informed some one at the other end that Mr. Rank was in the office. “Mr. Gascoyne will see you in one minute.” And he returned to his papers. In a moment Mr. Gascoyne opened the door of his inner office, showing out two elderly men. Whilst listening to their last words he motioned me to enter with a grave smile. In a minute he joined me and closed the door of the office behind him. “Please sit down, Mr. Rank.” He seated himself on the chair behind his desk and motioned me to the one opposite. I could not help noticing how much he had aged in the two or three months that had elapsed since I had seen him last. “You are not like the Gascoynes,” he said, with a smile, “and yet there is a something.” “My father was a Jew, and I think I am like him.” “To be frank with you, I have taken the trouble to find out exactly the relationship in which we stand.” I felt alarmed. It was distinctly unpleasant to hear that he had been making inquiries about me. “This is my mother’s photograph,” I said, handing him a small likeness of her. He looked at it with interest. “It is a very sweet face. She is dead, I believe?” “Yes, I have no nearer relative than Henry Gascoyne.” “Ah, poor old man, I am afraid he does not know anyone. He is quite childish.” “So I understand.” “Have you ever seen the family portraits at Hammerton?” “Never.” I was determined to deny any particular knowledge of the family. “Your mother is extraordinarily like some of the women. I do not know the present Earl, but I have visited Hammerton as an excursionist.” “I have never been there.” “And now will you come and have some lunch? I am a busy man and cannot afford to waste time.”