They all glanced towards Koko, except Dora, who, looking at Jim, observed that he was palpably wonder-struck by Koko’s remark. Jim, indeed, was as surprised as anyone at the table. What on earth was Koko driving at? As everybody (except Dora) turned towards Koko, Mr Somers rose from the table. "You must excuse such an unceremonious departure, Mrs Maybury," he said, "but I have just remembered that I have a most important appointment to keep. I thank you for your very kind hospitality. Jim, I should like to see you before I go." As Koko bowed himself out, Jim, marvelling greatly, followed him. In the hall, Koko exclaimed: "It’s all right, Jim--I’ll lend you the money." "What--for me to set up against Taplow?" "That’s it. You _must_ stay here, and you’ll do well in Mount Street. You shall have the money in the morning, and then you can go along and rig up a place and start right off. What’s the lowest figure you can begin on?" "I don’t know," said Jim. "Say fifty quid." "You shall have it. I’ll be round here with it at ten in the morning." "But--old man--I don’t like----" "I’ve thought it out," said Koko, "and meant to tell you all about it after dinner, but you forced my hand by saying you’d left Taplow." Then Koko put on his hat, opened the front door, and slipped out. Jim returned slowly to the dining-room. "Is this true, Dr Mortimer?" asked Mrs Maybury, in a tone implying some doubt. "Are you really setting up in Mount Street on your own account?" Jim had implicit confidence in Koko’s word. "It is quite true, Mrs Maybury," he replied, coolly, as he resumed his seat. *CHAPTER XIII.* *"HARRIS & FATHER."* Mr Harris, senior partner in the firm of Harris & Son, provision dealers, Mount Street, S.E., was in a state of much tribulation. For Mr Harris, owing to an unfortunate propensity for backing horses which either came in last, or fell down and broke their legs, or behaved in some other unsatisfactory fashion, had, as the phrase is, outrun the constable, and on the day that witnessed his visit to Dr Taplow’s surgery, had found himself threatened with bankruptcy and ruin. That evening--there being no other course to pursue--he had made a clean breast of his affairs to his son Isaac, a weedy, lynx-eyed youth of a greasy and unwashed appearance. "So dat is the case, my son," concluded Mr Harris, throwing out his hands in a gesture of despair; "and now--vot are ve to do--vot are ve to do?" Mr Harris and his heir, it may be added, were East End Jews of a pronounced type, and their speech suggested a certain German strain in their ancestry. "It is very sad, mine fader," replied young Harris; "it vos foolish of you to bet on dose ’orses----." "It vos foolish of dose ’orses not to run faster!" cried Mr Harris, proceeding to cut his nails with the counter scissors.