Alistair sat dismayed. A sense of impotence stole over him, at the same time that the figure of the man with whom he had been familiar for so long began to grow larger and more formidable of outline before his awakened eyes. All these precautions interposed between him and the millionaire taught him a new estimate of their respective positions in the world. He, Alistair Stuart, might be called a lord, but which of the two really was lord? His courtesy title, his historic lineage, his royal friendships--all these things might give him a sentimental prestige in the eyes of women struggling on the fringe of society, and still cherishing the delusions of the snob. But in this grim City office, where only realities counted, what was he but a needy insolvent, regarded with suspicion as a probable would-be borrower? The feudal age was past, and the trappings of feudalism stood revealed for the worthless, threadbare frippery they were, as if a strong beam of daylight had suddenly fallen on the painted canvas of a theatrical scene. The feudal age was past, the old Viking race, whose stone keeps dot the English shires, had gone down, never to rise again, and to-day the barons of steel were being broken in pieces by the barons of gold. While these reflections were passing in one compartment of his brain in another the decision formed itself to accept the conditions. “My business is confidential,” he ventured first. The intermediary bowed. “I am in Mr. Mendes’ confidence.” “Well, I have come on behalf of Don Juan.” And seeing that the Pretender’s name made but a faint impression on the confidential secretary, or whatever he should be styled, Lord Alistair entered earnestly into the history of the Prince, his claims, his hopes, and his prospects of success, winding up with the explanation that Don Juan had authorized him to negotiate a loan. “Do you offer security?” was the confidential man’s sole comment on this appeal. The question dragged Alistair promptly down from the height of his enthusiasm. “The Prince would guarantee repayment out of the taxes, I suppose,” he said a little doubtfully. “Or couldn’t he give concessions for railways, or mines, or something? He would leave that to Mr. Mendes, I should think.” A very faint smile creased the mouth of the City man. He took a slip of cardboard from a stand in front of him, and wrote a few words on it: “Lord A. Stuart. Loan for Pretender. No security.” With this in his hand he rose and passed into an adjoining room. In less than a minute he returned, accompanied by a younger man, who bowed respectfully to Lord Alistair as he said: “Will you come to Mr. Mendes, my lord?”