On a Tuesday morning, the 7th of March 1775, a slender, middle-aged gentleman walked into the counting-house of Messrs Drummond, the great bankers of Charing Cross. Garbed in a trim snuff-coloured suit, and betraying none of the macaroni eccentricities with the exception of a gold-laced hat, his dress suited the rôle that he played in life--a sleek and prosperous apothecary. This Mr Robert Perreau of Golden Square was welcomed cordially by Henry Drummond, one of the partners in the firm, for an apothecary was almost as eminent as a doctor, and the men had met and known each other at such houses as my Lord Egmont’s or that of my Lady Lyttelton. Producing as security a bond for £7500, bearing a signature that should have been honoured by any house in London, the visitor requested a loan of £5000. However, strange to say, banker Henry, who had been joined by his brother Robert, seemed dissatisfied. “This bond is made payable to you,” he remarked. “Was you present when it was executed?” “No, I was not present,” was Mr Perreau’s reply. “It is not the signature of William Adair, the late army agent of Pall Mall,” was the startling comment of Robert Drummond. “I have seen his drafts many a time!” The prim countenance of the apothecary remained unperturbed. “There is no doubt but it is his hand,” he answered, with perfect composure, “for it is witnessed by Mr Arthur Jones, his solicitor, and by Thomas Stark, his servant.” “It is very odd,” replied the incredulous Robert Drummond. “I have seen his hand formerly, and this does not appear to be the least like it.” Brother Henry Drummond echoed the same sentiment, whereupon Mr Robert Perreau waxed mysterious and emphatic. “Mr Adair is my particular friend,” he declared. “There are family connections between us.... Mr Adair has money of mine in his hands, and allows me interest.” “Come to-morrow, Mr Perreau,” said Henry Drummond, “and we will give you an answer.” Having received this promise the apothecary departed, but after the lapse of two hours he returned, and was seen by banker Henry once more. Without the least reserve he confessed that he had been much concerned by what the Messrs Drummond had told him. “I could not be easy in my mind till I had called on Mr Adair,” he explained. “Luckily I catched him in his boots before he went to take his ride.” Naturally, the good banker listened with interest, noting the words, for it seemed odd that Mr William Adair, the rich squire of Flixton Hall in Suffolk, whose son was carrying on the army agency, should raise money in such a style. “I produced the bond to Mr Adair,” Robert Perreau continued. “It was his signature, he said, but he might possibly have altered his hand from the time you had seen him write.... You might let me have the £5000, Mr Adair said, and he would pay the bond in May, though it is not payable till June.”