Bartley Bradstone, in sheer absence of mind, had opened his newspaper, which he had put in his pocket unglanced at when he bought it, and the first words that met his eyes were: “Disaster in the City. Failure of the South Indian Bank!” For a moment the line of large type conveyed no special significance to his mind; then suddenly it flashed upon him that the bank was one of the schemes in which he had taken a part, and a large part. He put his hand to his aching brow and tried to remember what he had lately done in the matter. It seemed to him that he recollected sending his tool, Ezekiel Mowle, instructions to sell out his shares and close his connection with the affair; but his brain would not act with its usual readiness in the direction of his ordinary business; it was all too absorbed in the more important matter of life and death. Had he or had he not given the proper instructions to Mowle? He tried to put the question, the whole business out of his head; but the instincts of the money-spinner overreached the cunning caution of the criminal, and with a muttered oath, he put up the trapdoor in the cab and told the man to drive him to Ethelred Chambers in the city. Cabmen are accustomed to these sudden re-directions, and without a word, the man turned his horse in the direction of the city. “Your guv’nor didn’t seem to know his own mind,” growled Seth’s cabman, through the hole in the roof. “Follow him!” said Seth, whose blood was beginning to stir within his veins, as the lurcher’s or the sleuthhound’s will when hot upon the trail. Bartley Bradstone’s cab pulled up at Ethelred Chambers, and, telling the cabman to wait, he went up the stairs, and, without knocking, opened the door of a dingy office and walked in. Ezekiel Mowle was seated at a table, his huge mouth open, his lantern jaws working eagerly, as he sprawled over a desk, writing apparently for dear life. The office, the furniture of which would not have realized five-and-thirty shillings, was in extreme disorder, and a Gladstone bag was lying half open on the floor, as if it had been hurriedly thrown there. Mr. Mowle looked up with a start, and, uttering an exclamation, covered the paper before him with his huge, bony hand. If his employer had been a ghost--and, indeed, Bartley Bradstone looked not unlike one--Mr. Mowle could not have been more startled. “Mr. Bradstone, sir! This is a surprise. How do you do, sir? I am afraid you’re not looking well. Take a chair, Mr. Bradstone,” and he drew the chair out and stood with his head thrust forward, rubbing his hands and eying Bartley Bradstone with a wary and still startled watchfulness. Bartley Bradstone took off his hat and wiped his brow. “I am not very well, Mowle,” he said. “I have come up on important business. What the devil is the office in such a state for? Where are you going?” Mr. Mowle changed color, but stood rubbing his hands and working his long neck.