Mr. Alfred Bolt, minus coat, collar, tie and shoes, was seated in an arm chair, his feet reposing upon the mantel-piece. At his elbow was a glass of whiskey and water with a slice of lemon floating on the surface. His waistcoat was undone and the white of his shirt emphasised the enormous girth of his corporation. His legs were short, his hands fat, his face round and margined with a half circle of hair beneath the chin. At the first glance you would have taken him for the model from which Will Owen must have illustrated the stories of W. W. Jacobs. One would have expected him to remind the passer-by that it was "a nice day for a sail" or alternatively to demand "Any more for the Skylark?" But a closer inspection would have shaken the foundation of so simple a belief for Mr. Alfred Bolt's eyes were not of the honest kind worn by men who go down to the sea in ships. They were close set, narrow lidded, cunning, piggy little eyes that caused unrest to look upon. At the sight of Harrison Smith he removed his feet from the mantelpiece and extended an open armed welcome. "Welcome and thrice welcome, my dear brother," he intoned in an admirable imitation of the accepted ecclesiastical method. "I rejoice indeed to observe that you are now in Holy Orders." Then with a drop into the vernacular. "Blind me, Smith, what the hell are you doing with your collar back to front?" Harrison Smith gave a hurried explanation. "But I thought that job was cleared up," said Bolt. "Maybe it is, but there's a chance of a big coup that no one expected. Now, if you care to take a hand." Mr. Bolt fancied himself as a mimic, indeed he harboured the opinion that he was a peer even to the late Sir Henry Irving in the matter of "take offs." He could imitate a cat or a Chinaman, while his thumb nail impressions of sundry Hebraic neighbours were only rivalled by his flawless caricatures of natives of Germany or the New Hebrides. But best of all he loved to assume the inflexion, guise and bearing of a member of the clergy--a circumstance very possibly explained by the fact that his own private life was as far removed from the office of virtue as could be imagined. "Be unafraid, my son," quoth he. "If your heart is full speak into my listening ear and may a blessing fall on your confession." Then fashioning a trumpet with his two hands he bellowed like a fog horn: "Becky! A drop of whiskey hot for the gent." And while the refreshment was being procured he observed parenthetically: "A nice little piece, ain't she? Very smart and dossy. Come on, Smith, my boy--my jolly old beau--dear old cracker, soak up the juice of the barley and expound the tale of woe." Harrison Smith wasted no time in explaining the case while Bolt listened with great concentration, nodding approval at this point or that. "Hm! Worth trying anyway," he agreed. "What do you want me to do?"