“I have business in Lombard Street,” said Mrs. Hammond, discouraging with a cold look what seemed to her, rightly or wrongly, a disposition on the part of this young man to do the honours and behave generally as if he were trying to suggest that Tilbury House was his personal property but that any relative of Lord Tilbury was welcome there. “I have to visit my bank.” “I shall have to visit mine pretty soon,” said Sam, “or the wolf will be scratching at the door.” “If you are short of funds----” began Lord Tilbury. “Oh, I’m all right for the present, thanks. I pinched close on fifty pounds from a man this morning.” “You did what?” said Lord Tilbury blankly. “Pinched fifty pounds. Surprising he should have had so much on him. But lucky--for me.” “Did he make any objection to your remarkable behaviour?” “He was asleep at the time, and I didn’t wake him. I just left a poached egg on his pillow and came away.” Lord Tilbury swallowed convulsively and his eye sought that of Mrs. Hammond in a tortured glare. “A poached egg?” he whispered. “So that he would find it there when he woke,” explained Sam. Mrs. Hammond had abandoned her intention of withdrawing and leaving the two men together for a cosy chat. Georgie, it seemed to her from his expression, needed a woman’s loving support. Sam appeared to have affected him like some unpleasant drug, causing starting of the eyes and twitching of the muscles. “It is a pity you missed the _Mauretania_, Mr. Shotter,” she said. “My brother had hoped that you would travel with him so that you could have a good talk about what you were to do when you joined his staff.” “Great pity,” said Sam, omitting to point out that it was for that very reason that he had allowed the _Mauretania_ to depart without him. “However, it’s all right. I have found my niche.” “You have done what?” “I have selected my life work.” He pulled out of his pocket a crumpled paper. “I would like to attach myself to Pyke’s _Home Companion_. I bought a copy on my way here, and it is the goods. You aren’t reading the serial by any chance, are you--_Hearts Aflame_, by Cordelia Blair? A winner. I only had time to glance at the current instalment, but it was enough to make me decide to dig up the back numbers at the earliest possible moment. In case you haven’t read it, it is Leslie Mordyke’s wedding day, and a veiled woman with a foreign accent has just risen in the body of the church and forbidden the banns. And,” said Sam warmly, “I don’t blame her. It appears that years ago----” Lord Tilbury was making motions of distress, and Mrs. Hammond bent solicitously, like one at a sick bed, to catch his fevered whisper. “My brother,” she announced, “wishes----” “----was hoping,” corrected Lord Tilbury. “----was hoping,” said Mrs. Hammond, accepting the emendation, “that you would join the staff of the _Daily Record_ so that you might be under his personal eye.”