“It would be a great blow to me to leave the firm,” said Hartley, after two ineffectual attempts to speak. “I have been in it all my life—all my life. At my age I could scarcely hope to get any other employment worth having. I have always tried to do my best. I have never—” “Yes, yes,” said the other, interrupting with a wave of his hand; “that has been recognized. Your remuneration has, I believe, been in accordance with your—ha—services. And I suppose you have made some provision?” Hartley shook his head. “Very little,” he said, slowly. “My wife was ill for years before she died, and I have had other expenses. My life is insured, so that in case of anything happening to me there would be something for my daughter, but that is about all.” “And in case of dismissal,” said the senior partner, with some cheerfulness, “the insurance premium would, of course, only be an extra responsibility. It is your business, of course; but if I were—ha—in your place I should—ha—marry my daughter off as soon as possible. If you could come to me in three months and tell me—” He broke off abruptly and, sitting upright, eyed his clerk steadily. “That is all, I think,” he said at last. “Oh, no mention of this, of course, in the office—I have no desire to raise hopes of promotion in the staff that may not be justified; I may say that I hope will _not_ be justified.” He drew his chair to the table, and with a nod of dismissal took up his pen. Hartley went back to his work with his head in a whirl, and for the first time in twenty years cast a column of figures incorrectly, thereby putting a great strain on the diplomacy of the junior who made the discovery. He left at his usual hour, and, free from the bustle of the office, tried to realize the full meaning of his interview with Mr. Vyner. He thought of his pleasant house and garden, and the absence of demand in Salthaven for dismissed clerks of over fifty. His thoughts turned to London, but he had grown up with Vyner and Son and had but little to sell in the open market. Walking with bent head he cannoned against a passer-by, and, looking up to apologize, caught sight of Captain Trimblett across the way, standing in front of a jeweller’s window. A tall, sinewy man in a serge suit, whom Hartley recognized as Captain Walsh, was standing by him. His attitude was that of an indulgent policeman with a refractory prisoner, and twice Hartley saw him lay hold of the captain by the coat-sleeve, and call his attention to something in the window. Anxious to discuss his affairs with Trimblett, Hartley crossed the road. “Ah! here’s Hartley,” said the tall captain, with an air of relief, as Captain Trimblett turned and revealed a hot face mottled and streaked with red. “Make him listen to reason. He won’t do it for me.” “What’s the matter?” inquired Hartley, listlessly.