I heard no more of Big Jim, though I saw him one night at dinner at the Ritz-Carlton, and from his prosperous appearance I gathered that he was not in any immediate want. My friend, to whom I had given him an introduction, told me that Jim had cleaned up a lot of money one night at the gaming club, that he was friendly with a number of officers, and that he had become _persona grata_ at a certain Bohemian club, the members of which are mostly of the theatrical profession. I remembered, when this was told me, that Big Jim, before he began his nefarious career, had been an actor, if you can dignify with such a name one who travelled one-night stands with a third-rate burlesque company, and he was alternately comedian and baggage man. What I expected, and what did not occur, was a visit from the police in regard to Big Jim. For this I was prepared, but apparently the story I told at the club must have been repeated in the proper quarters, as I intended it should be, and nobody questioned me as to my acquaintance with this undesirable American. Whatever place Big Jim may have occupied in my mind was dispelled by a piece of news which came to me one morning whilst I was in my bath--it was Friday, that being the day I invariably bathe--which was of so remarkable a character, and its possibilities so far-reaching, that nothing else occupied my thoughts. My servant knocked at the door and told me that there was an urgent message awaiting me from “Mr. Thompson.” Now “Mr. Thompson” was the telephone name for Mr. Ritten, and dressing myself hastily in my bath-wrap I hurried to the room I used as a study, knowing that Ritten would not call me at that unearthly hour unless something important was afoot or unless he had secured some information of an unusual character. “It is I, Thompson,” said the voice, “can I see you? It is most important.” “My dear Thompson,” I said testily, “you know very well that it is impossible that we should meet.” “But I must see you,” he said, “it is a matter of the first importance. I cannot communicate over the telephone.” “Come then at once,” I said, “bringing some documents which would excuse your presence.” In ten minutes the bell of my flat rang, and Mr. Ritten was ushered in. He was a suave, gentlemanly man, who was, I believe, well born in his own country. With a preliminary apology for troubling me, which I coldly dismissed, he laid before me the object of his visit. “I have had a request for a loan of £20,000 for seven days,” he said. “Twenty thousand pounds!” I was surprised at the largeness of the sum. “That is an enormous amount. Who asks for it?” “General Sir Stanley Magward!” I whistled. “Sir Stanley Magward!” This was indeed a remarkable request. This general, as everybody knows, commands one of the English armies. He is a famous strategist, and marked for further promotion.