Simpson gave no figure of loss: but the last time Peter was in Lime Street, Hagenburg’s account stood at five thousand. Simpson had spoken of larger orders pending. Therefore the loss must be more than five thousand. Eight? Ten, perhaps. Jamesons could just stand ten. Only just. Simpson appeared panicky. He had better go up to town and see Simpson. Peter pulled a telegraph pad towards him; wrote a deliberate wire to Simpson’s private address at Harrow; called “Driver Norris!” A bullet head poked itself in at the doorway, said “Yes, sir.” “Go and find Driver Jelks. Tell him to take a bicycle and get this wire off sharp. Then go over to the Mess; find Mr. Purves; ask him if he’d mind coming over to see me for a minute. Do you understand?” “Yes, sir. Very good, sir.” A few minutes later Purves, with a mock salute and a drawled “Did’st send for me, P.J.?” came into the room. “I say, old man, I’ve got to go up to town tomorrow”—it will be noticed that Peter took Stark’s leave for granted—“So you’ll have to cancel that telephone parade of yours.” “Oh, I say . . .” “Sorry. I’ll be back in the evening. It’s rather important.” “Nothing serious, I hope.” Purves noticed that P.J.’s voice was a trifle grim. “Oh, no. Just something in the City that needs my personal attention.” Neither that night, as the four sat down to their usual set rubber, nor next morning as she drove him in the Crossley to Farnborough Station, did Patricia—put off with the same explanation—suspect the unpalatable truth. § 5 The Lime Street offices had altered but little. They seemed—as Peter, booted and spurred, clinked through the doorway—a shade gloomier, a shade dustier. A tumble-haired office-girl occupied Parkins’ reception-box. No George—pensioned six months since—pottered about the cigar-racks. The piles of boxes had shrunk to mere remnants of their cedar selves. But otherwise the place was unchanged: looked the same, smelt the same as the first day Peter joined his father in the city. Only Simpson, sitting in the dark back-room, had become an old man! He seemed to have shrunk: lines streaked his face, white hairs his beard. At sight of him, Peter’s anger evaporated. “Poor old Tom!” he thought, “poor old Tom!” “It was good of you to come up at once.” The old man looked at the soldier, drew a little comfort from his obvious strength. “This has been my fault, right from the start. You were always against giving the fellow credit. I was talking to my missis about it last night after your wire came—and she thinks—I think—as it’s all my fault—that I ought to stand the whole loss. . . .” Peter turned away to hide his feelings; made great play of hanging up cap and riding-cane. The offer touched him keenly. It was fine—damn fine—the offer of a white man. But. . . . “Don’t be such an ass, Tom. I’m just as responsible as you are.” The face above the khaki collar showed no trace of emotion.