"It must be obvious," said Sir Harry slowly. "It ain’t so obvious to me as you might think," interrupted Hal, "look here, governor, I’ve seen you in business deals before. I’ve known you to be beaten badly, but when you’ve seen yourself worsted you’ve always gone to save the grand slam—see? Picked up the pieces of wreckage an’ sold ’em for what they would fetch. I’ve never known you to, what I might call, pursue a disadvantage. Now we all know the Duke has worried you and bested you, an’ generally got the top-dog of you, but why do you want to fire him out of Brockley? I’m not such a fool but what I can see that he can still go on spoonin’ Alicia wherever he is. He can still go on opposing you an’ worrying’ me." "There are some matters," said Sir Harry deliberately, "into which it is not advisable to go very deeply; with me it is a question of personal pride that the Duke should go——" "Governor," said Hal earnestly, "what’s the use of bluffin’ a fellow like me? I ask you, are you the sort to buy a tin-pot little paper, to go in for house property and then evict your paying tenants? Governor, you’re spending money an’ that’s a very significant thing." Sir Harry looked at his watch. "I’ve five minutes to catch my train," he said pointedly, "is the brougham at the door?" The brougham _was_ at the door. Its two champing pawing steeds champed and pawed as per specification—as a business man Sir Harry insisted upon written specifications dealing minutely with details of his purchases, even of his carriage horses. "Another time," said Sir Harry drawing on his gloves, "I shall be happy to discuss this matter. But not now." He reached his office in Austin Friars and found a note awaiting him. A note daringly spelt and slovenly written. An hour later he hailed a cab and drove rapidly westward. In Guilford Street is an imposing house bearing on the fanlight over the front door the astonishing legend, "Apartments," and at this house Sir Harry descended. His knock brought a little Swiss boy in an ill-fitting dress suit. "Mr. Smith?" inquired Sir Harry and the boy nodded and ushered him upstairs. The atmosphere of the room into which Sir Harry was shown was, to put it mildly, dense. Mr. William Slewer was an inveterate smoker of bad cigars. He lay full length on a sofa with a glowing butt between his teeth, and rose slowly and painfully to his feet as the knight entered. "How is the leg?" asked Sir Harry pleasantly. Bill Slewer permitted himself to smile. "That’s nothin’," he said indifferently, "a little thing like that don’t trouble me any. She smarts some, but nothin’ to boast about." He looked expectantly at Sir Harry and that gentleman read his unspoken questions. "I have nothing to tell you further," he said, "we are doing our best to make Brockley too hot for him." "He’d better get a wiggle on," said Mr. Slewer calmly, "I’m sure tired of this foolish old country."