“Of course, of course; I quite forgot that—stupid of me, what? There’s old Lord Resston—he never turns up—holds 15% of the shares and draws his guineas—great disappointment to me. Wraile here comes pretty regularly twice a week; I’m here most days. The only other director’s a chap called Lessingham—Travers Lessingham—very shrewd; doesn’t show up much, though—other irons in the fire, I suppose. Still, when he comes, his advice is worth having. That’s our Board. Then there’s Blagge, our manager, whom you’ve met; Miss Saverel, our very capable secretary, and a couple of junior clerks.” Fratten nodded. “And do you suppose your fellow-directors will care for me to join you?” he asked. For a second Sir Hunter hesitated, but before the pause could become awkward—or even apparent—Wraile slipped into the breach—as he had so often done in France. “Speaking for myself, sir,” he said, “I shall consider it a great honour to work with you.” The General shot him a grateful glance. “Of course, I must formally consult my colleagues,” he said, “but, naturally I don’t expect anything but a warm welcome.” Sir Hunter had burnt his boats. “Very well,” said Sir Garth, rising, “I’ll look into these papers and let you have a decision within a week or two—it’ll take me a little time—I’m an old-fashioned methodical man and I don’t rush my decisions. Good-day to you, Lorne; good-day, Captain Wraile.” “I’ll come down with you, my dear fellow—nearly my lunch time—can I persuade you to . . .” the door closed behind them and Wraile was alone. He stood for a moment in thought, then touched a handbell twice. The inner door opened and a young woman, tall, fair, and attractive, came into the room. “Dictation, please, Miss Saverel.” The secretary pulled a chair up to the table and opened her note-book. “My dear Lessingham . . .” CHAPTER IV The Expected Happens One evening, about a fortnight later, Sir Garth Fratten and Leopold Hessel walked down the steps of the “Wanderers,” in St. James’s Square, of which rather large-hearted club Hessel was a member, and turned towards Waterloo Place. Fratten usually spent an hour or so at his club, or that of one of his friends, in the evening and walked home afterwards across the Park to his house in Queen Anne’s Gate. It was, in fact, the only exercise that he got in the day. “Thanks for my tea, Leo,” said Sir Garth. “First-rate China tea it was too—I wonder where you get it?” Hessel smiled. “That’s one of the advantages of being not too exclusive,” he said. “We’ve got members from all parts of the world and in all sorts of business; it’s rather a point of pride with us that each member who can should help the club to get the best of everything. That tea is unobtainable on the market—Rowle gets it for us, he’s a Civil Servant in Hong Kong; we’ve got more than one tea-merchant, but they can’t produce anything to touch it.”