Hanbury stretched out his hand impatiently for the notes. "Pray satisfy my curiosity, and let me have them on those conditions," he said. "My life is of no earthly value to me. Besides, with all my faults, I’m not one to turn back after putting my hand to the plough. If I do, by all means give me my quietus as mercifully as may be." "Then here goes," whispered Jevons, mouth to ear. "The game is the planting of faked United States Treasury Bonds on the Bank of England to the tune of three million sterling—pounds, not dollars, you know. You will proceed to England by the _St. Paul_, sailing for Southampton the day after to-morrow, and on arrival in London you will at once call on Mr. Clinton Ziegler, at the Hotel Cecil. He is our chief, and will give you final instructions as to your part in the campaign. You’ll find him a handsome paymaster." "I look forward to making Mr. Ziegler’s acquaintance with interest," replied Hanbury, pocketing the notes which the other passed to him. "Am I to have the pleasure of your company on the voyage?" "I’m afraid not; my work is here," said Jevons. "And—well, it’s not altogether healthy for me on the other side." The confession was accompanied by a wink which forcibly brought it home to the recruit that he had joined the criminal classes. His new friend—"pal," he supposed he ought to call him—evidently thought him worthy of personal confidence. They had another drink together at the bar, and parted outside the saloon, Hanbury making his belated way towards Brooklyn. Once or twice he turned abruptly to see if he was being followed, but the aggressive white Panama hat was nowhere visible, the conclusion being obvious that the astute Mr. Jevons had ascertained his domicile, as well as his place of employment, before broaching his delicate business. Tramping along the teeming Bowery and across the footway of the mighty bridge, the ex-hussar enjoyed to the full the exultation of feeling money in his pocket once more. It was not much, and it was as good as spent already in the cost of a passage and an outfit; but it was the earnest of more to come, and, above all, it franked the exile home to England. At the price of his honor, perhaps? Well, yes; but what was honor to a dry-goods clerk at eight dollars a week? He might have taken a different view two years ago, when honor stood for something in his creed; but not now, with the world against him. Entering the sordid boarding-house, he mounted to his top-floor bedroom, aware that he had forfeited his supper of beef-hash, and that it was too late to go to the dining-room in quest thereof. His eyrie under the roof, flanked on one side by the apartment of a German car-driver and on the other by that of an Irish porter, was furnished with little else than a bed and a toilet-table.