"By gad--I forgot about Jephson. Sails at one o'clock, doesn't he?" He turned to Lord Harrowby. "The very man--and in New York, too. Jephson would insure T. Roosevelt against another cup of coffee." "Am I to understand," asked Harrowby, "that Jephson is the man for me to see?" "Exactly," beamed Mr. Thacker. "I'll have him here in fifteen minutes. Richard, will you please call up his hotel?" And as Mr. Minot reached for the telephone, Mr. Thacker added pleadingly: "Of course, I don't know the nature of your proposition--" "No," agreed Lord Harrowby politely. Discouraged, Mr. Thacker gave up. "However, Jephson seems to have a gambling streak in him that odd risks appeal to," he went on. "Of course, he's scientific. All Lloyds' risks are scientifically investigated. But--occasionally--well, Jephson insured Sir Christopher Conway, K.C.B., against the arrival of twins in his family. Perhaps you recall the litigation that resulted when triplets put in their appearance?" "I'm sorry to say I do not," said Lord Harrowby. Mr. Minot set down the telephone. "Owen Jephson is on his way here in a taxi," he announced. "Good old Jephson," mused Mr. Thacker, reminiscent. "Why, some of the man's risks are famous. Take that shopkeeper in the Strand--every day at noon the shadow of Nelson's Monument in Trafalgar Square falls across his door. Twenty years ago he got to worrying for fear the statue would fall some day and smash his shop. And every year since he has taken out a policy with Jephson, insuring him against that dreadful contingency." "I seem to have heard of that," admitted Harrowby, with the ghost of a smile. "You must have. Only recently Jephson wrote a policy for the Dowager Duchess of Tremayne, insuring her against the unhappy event of a rainstorm spoiling the garden party she is shortly to give at her Italian villa. I understand a small fortune is involved. Then there is Courtney Giles, leading man at the West End Road Theater. He fears obesity. Jephson has insured him. Should he become too plump for Romeo roles, Lloyds--or rather Jephson--will owe him a large sum of money." "I am encouraged to hope," remarked Lord Harrowby, "that Mr. Jephson will listen to my proposition." "No doubt he will," replied Mr. Thacker. "I can't say definitely. Now, if I knew the nature--" But when Mr. Jephson walked into the office fifteen minutes later Mr. Thacker was still lamentably ignorant of the nature of his titled visitor's business. Mr. Jephson was a small wiry man, crowned by a vast acreage of bald head, and with the immobile countenance sometimes lovingly known as a "poker face." One felt he could watch the rain pour in torrents on the dowager duchess, Courtney Giles' waist expand visibly before his eyes, the statue of Nelson totter and fall on his shopkeeper, and never move a muscle of that face.