"Give me a letter to someone else, then," Rowan begged. "I'm just back from Africa, broken." "I can't do that," Deane answered. "I know you well. I like you. We have been friends. We have been together in difficulties. More than once you have been in a way useful to me. I have every disposition to serve you. But you were never made for business, or any form of regular work. I would not offer you a place in my own office, and I cannot pass you on to my friends. What else can I do for you?" Rowan looked into his hat, and laughed a little bitterly. "What the devil else is there anyone can do for me?" he demanded. "I can lend you some money," Deane said shortly. "I shall take it," Rowan answered; "but it will be spent pretty soon, and I doubt whether you'll ever get it back. I want a chance to make a fresh start." Deane shook his head. "I can't help you," he said,--"not in that sort of way, at any rate. If you wanted to settle down in the country, I'd try and find you a place there." "No good," Rowan answered. "I want to make money, and I want to make it quick." The telephone bell rang, and Deane was busy for several moments answering questions and giving instructions. Then he turned once more to his visitor. "Rowan," he said, "you talk like all the others who come down into the city expecting to find it a sort of Eldorado. I can do nothing for you. How much money shall I lend you? Stop!" he said, holding out his hand. "I don't want to seem unkind, but I am a busy man. I don't want to lend you ten pounds to-day, and have you come and borrow another ten pounds next week, and another the week after. You and I went through some rough times together. We've heard the bullets sing. We've known what a licking was like, and we've shouted ourselves hoarse with joy when the good time came. I don't forget these things, man. I don't want you for a moment to believe that I have forgotten them. Ask me for any reasonable sum, and I'll give it you. But afterwards we shake hands and part, at any rate so far as the city is concerned. You understand?" Rowan leaned forward in his chair. He wetted his dry lips nervously with his tongue. The look of ill-health in his features was almost painfully manifest. The writing which it is not possible to mistake was on his face. "Look here, Deane," he said hoarsely, "don't think I am ungrateful. You've put the matter straight to me like a man, and, if needs be, I'll ask you for a good round sum and go, and I'll take my oath you'll never see me again. But listen. I am in a bad way. I was in the hospital last week, and they told me a few things." "I am sorry," said Deane. "You shall go away and recuperate. When you're feeling stronger you can think about some work."