“But what are you doing in mufti?” he asked, leading way through the glass-partitioned sales-rooms (which, Peter noticed, were as bare of stock as his own) into a green-carpeted sanctum of saddle-bag chairs and roll-top desks. “Usually get out of uniform when I’m on leave,” explained Peter. The little dude unlocked one of the desks; sat down at it; produced a box of fat oily Cabanas; pushed them across. “Trust goods. But not at all bad,” he said. Peter lit up; took the chair at the side of the desk; asked: “Is your brother Charlie in town?” “Yes. He’ll be back from lunch in about ten minutes.” “Good,” said Peter. “I’ve come round to talk business. It’ll save time if you’re both here.” “Business?” queried the other, letting the monocle drop from his eye-socket. “What sort of business?” “Tell you when Charlie comes in. How are things in general?” They settled down, Maurice on tenterhooks to find out what Peter could be driving at, to desultory trade-gossip. “Too much Government control for my liking,” said Maurice. “Still, except for the freights, I’m not grumbling.” His brother came in: a fat little man with goggly eyes and red hands, one of which he extended cordially to Peter. “Very glad to see you back, Peter. Very glad indeed. When’s the war going to be over?” “Peter’s come round to talk business,” interrupted Maurice. “Business!”—Charlie hung up his soft hat—“what sort of business? I didn’t know there was any business left to talk about.” He also unlocked his desk; sat down at it; took out a cigar-box; selected a weed. Looking at the two of them, Peter could not help a totally unreasonable feeling of contempt—contempt not only for them, but for himself for wanting money from them. There was a little of the Weasel’s rasp in his voice as he began: “The business is this. As you know, Simpson is dead. There’s no one left to carry on Jamesons. And so, I’ve got to sell it. I’ve come to you first. You know almost as much about the show as I do. If you want it, you must make up your minds within twenty-four hours. . . .” “Rather rushing things, aren’t you, Peter?” interrupted Maurice. “Possibly,”—it must be remembered that Peter knew his men pretty well—“but what am I to do? Leave doesn’t last for ever; and I’ve got to have the whole thing settled before I go away.” “But what’s the price?” Charlie’s mind moved more directly if less rapidly than his brother’s. “Well”—Peter spoke slowly—“of course you’ll take stock and book-debts at a valuation. We shan’t quarrel about that. The only question is how much the goodwill’s worth.” “Goodwill!” Maurice screwed his monocle back into his eye. “My dear Peter, you must be joking. I shouldn’t dream of paying for goodwill.” (“Then he’s a buyer!” commented Peter’s mind.) “A cigar importing business has no goodwill. You and I decided that years ago. It’s a personal business.” “Not under present conditions. The import-licence represents a share in an absolute monopoly.”