He was a fair man with an unblemished skin and a small yellow moustache; a credit to his hosier and shirtmaker. His wasp-waisted morning coat fitted him without the suspicion of a wrinkle; his gray waistcoat, the severe dark trousers with the thinnest of white stripes, the patent shoes, the exact cravat, were all parts of a sartorial symmetry. Mr. Gwyn seldom appeared in the courts. His head clerk, a gray-haired man of fifty, who was generally supposed by Mr. Gwyn’s brother solicitors to be the brains of the business, prepared most of the briefs, interviewed the majority of clients, leaving to his employer the most important. On a bright morning in the early days of September, Mr. Gwyn’s big Rolls glided noiselessly to the sidewalk, the youthful footman seated by the side of the driver sprang out and opened the door, and Arthur Gwyn stepped daintily forth. There was a small white rose in his buttonhole, and the passer-by who saw him, noting the perfect shine of his silk hat, the glitter of his patent shoes, and the ebony stick that he carried in his gloved hand, thought he was a bridegroom stopping on his way to church. He entered the tiny electric lift and was whisked up to the first floor. A porter opened his door with a little bow and Arthur walked in, followed by the servitor, who took his hat, gloves, and cane, and disappeared with them to an inner room. Mr. Gwyn sat down at his desk, glanced at the letters that had been left opened for his inspection and pushed them aside. He pressed an onyx bell-push twice, and in a few seconds his hard-faced managing clerk came in, carrying a wad of papers in his hand. “Close the door, Gilder. What are these?” Gilder threw the papers on the polished table. “Mostly writs,” he said curtly. “For me?” Gilder nodded and Arthur Gwyn turned over the papers idly. “There is going to be trouble if they give judgment against you for some of these,” said Gilder. “Up to now, I’ve managed to keep them out of court, but there are at least three of these which must be paid. I haven’t had a chance to speak to you since I came back from my holidays. Did you lose much at Goodwood?” “Eight or nine thousand,” said Arthur Gwyn lightly. “It may have been more or less.” “That means you don’t know because you haven’t paid,” said Gilder bluntly. “I paid a few--the more pressing,” the other hastened to assure him. “What are these?” He fingered the writs again with his beautifully manicured hand. “One of them is very serious indeed,” said Gilder, picking it out from the rest. “The trustees of the Wellman estate are suing you for three thousand pounds--the loan you had from Wellman.” “Can’t you fix them?” Gilder shook his head. “I can’t fix trustees--you know that. This is going to look ugly if it comes into court.” Arthur Gwyn shrugged his shoulders. “There is nothing ugly about a loan----”