The General was a well-built man of about five foot ten, very erect and extremely good-looking, with a straight nose, firm chin, brushed-up moustache, and dark hair only powdered with grey. There was nothing subtle about him; it was quite obvious that he would be an extremely good friend to people whom he liked and frankly contemptuous of those he did not understand. He had done well in command of a division in France (or, what was considered the same thing, the division which he commanded had done well) and was now confidently engaging in a campaign in which he would be even more dependent on the skill of those serving under him. The offices of this young and promising Finance Company were by no means pretentious. They consisted of a clerks’ room, opening on to the landing, a small room for the manager and secretary, and a larger directors’ room, which also had a door opening on to the stairs. Sir Hunter, as was his habit, entered by way of the clerks’ room, greeted the two young clerks, asking one about his mother’s neuritis and the other about the fortunes of his pet football club (“Always get to know your men and their interests, my lad”), and passed down the short passage into the directors’ room. Here he found a fellow-director, Captain James Wraile, a clean-cut, clean-shaven man of forty, with the very pale blue eyes that may mean the extremity of either strength or weakness and are so very hard to judge. “Morning, Wraile, my boy. Glad you’ve turned up,” exclaimed the General heartily. “How goes the world?” Wraile smiled quietly. “Well enough, I think, General, if you aren’t in British Cereals.” “Ah, yes, we did well not to touch that. Your advice, I think, Wraile. I don’t know what we should do without you.” “It was rather lucky; they looked a good thing at first sight. But one can generally find the weak spot when one gets down to the foundation—as it’s our job to do. Lessingham’s coming in this morning, Blagge tells me, General. He rang through last night to ask if you’d be here.” “Oh, he is, is he? Very good of him to come at all. I suppose if I see him once a month that’s about all I do, and Resston never. It’s as well he’s coming, though. He’s got a flair and we can do with his advice about the Barsington Dirt Track Racing Company. I don’t quite know what to say about that business, you know, Wraile. It’s a craze at the moment; there’s money in it now—big money. But will it last? Especially in the country towns—there’s a very limited public there, what?” “Very limited, Sir Hunter. It’s all right for a quick flutter, but a loan—we might find ourselves badly let in.” “Well, we’ll ask Lessingham—he may jump on it straight away. I respect his judgment. What time’s he coming?” “Eleven o’clock, he said—should be here any time now.”