Had he been free, had there been no War, he could have borrowed the money on the security of the business, taken in another partner, amalgamated with a competitor. But he was not free, would not be free till the War ended. And he had seen enough at first hand to know that the War—unless America came in—could easily go on another five years. He might, of course, compromise with Simpson’s executors, spread the payment over a longer period. But, in that case, who would carry on the concern? Miss Macpherson? He could hardly imagine a woman running Jamesons’. Mallabone, their sole remaining traveller? Mallabone had no brains. Besides—and here the effect of war on Peter’s temperament clearly revealed itself—any such solution contained the element of _risk_. He had lost more than half his capital: and he funked any diminution of the rest. Funked it! He, Peter Jameson, who had never funked a business gamble in his life. . . . “The only alternative,” said reason, “is to sell out. You’ll get hardly anything for goodwill: outside the stock and book-debts, your only asset was the Beckmann contract. That’s not worth twopence today. Still, if you could sell the business as a going concern, your capital would, at any rate, be _safe_. . . .” So thinking, Peter stepped out of the Pullman on to the platform of Victoria Station. § 2 This time, no Patricia met him. Apparently his wire to her had not arrived. He looked at the clock above the archway; saw it was half-past two; and decided to go straight to the City. In the Underground, an elderly civilian insisted on talking to him; asked—looking at his high-laced boots, his soft cap, his bulging haversack—if he had been to the Front. “Just come from it,” answered Peter, lighting a fresh cigar. “You’re in the R.F.A., aren’t you? I wonder if you’ve ever met my nephew. No, he’s not got a commission. A sergeant, I believe he is. His name’s Tomkins, same as mine: but I’ve forgotten the number of his battery. . . .” The conversation lasted till the train pulled up in the cavernous gloom of Monument Station. “Silly old ass,” thought Peter as he clinked along Gracechurch Street. “These people at home seem to think the R.F.A. is about as big as a platoon.” Pushing his way through the glass doors of the office, he bumped his haversack; vented an Expeditionary Force oath. No office-girl sat at the reception window. The racks in the duty-paid stock-rooms were quite empty; he passed between them into the back office; found Miss Macpherson, busy with ledgers and foolscap, sitting at Simpson’s old desk. “I didn’t expect you so soon, Mr. Jameson,” she said, rising. The war had altered the Scotswoman: higher pay had clad her in a well-cut skirt, a silk blouse, good boots and stockings; she looked almost comely with her dark hair, just graying, her firm well-moulded features, her keen brown eyes.