In less time than he named he was down in the front-room--his consulting room--where his wife was evidently having some difficulty in making agreeable conversation with their visitor. He was a big, heavy man, not unlike his elder brother, but with all the genial chubbiness of the medium coarsened into pure brutality. He had the same pile of curly hair, but he was clean-shaven with a heavy, obstinate jowl. He sat by the window with his huge freckled hands upon his knees. A very important part of Mr. Silas Linden lay in those hands, for he had been a formidable professional boxer, and at one time was fancied for the welter-weight honours of England. Now, as his stained tweed suit and frayed boots made clear, he had fallen on evil days, which he endeavoured to mitigate by cadging on his brother. “Mornin’, Tom,” he said in a husky voice. Then as the wife left the room: “Got a drop of Scotch about? I’ve a head on me this morning. I met some of the old set last night down at ‘The Admiral Vernon.’ Quite a reunion it was--chaps I hadn’t seen since my best ring days.” “Sorry, Silas,” said the medium, seating himself behind his desk. “I keep nothing in the house.” “Spirits enough, but not the right sort,” said Silas. “Well, the price of a drink will do as well. If you’ve got a Bradbury about you I could do with it, for there’s nothing coming my way.” Tom Linden took a pound from his desk. “Here you are, Silas. So long as I have any you have your share. But you had two pounds last week. Is it gone?” “Gone! I should say so!” He put the note in his pocket. “Now, look here, Tom, I want to speak to you very serious as between man and man.” “Yes, Silas, what is it?” “You see that!” He pointed to a lump on the back of his hand. “That’s a bone! See? It will never be right. It was when I hit Curly Jenkins third round and outed him at the N.S.C. I outed myself for life that night. I can put up a show fight and exhibition bout, but I’m done for the real thing. My right has gone west.” “It’s a hard case, Silas.” “Damned hard! But that’s neither here nor there. What matters is that I’ve got to pick up a living and I want to know how to do it. An old scrapper don’t find many openings. Chucker-out at a pub with free drinks. Nothing doing there. What I want to know, Tom, is what’s the matter with my becoming a medium?” “A medium?” “Why the devil should you stare at me! If it’s good enough for you it’s good enough for me.” “But you are _not_ a medium.” “Oh, come! Keep that for the newspapers. It’s all in the family, and between you an’ me, how dy’e do it?” “I don’t do it. I do nothing.” “And get four or five quid a week for it. That’s a good yarn. Now you can’t fool me, Tom. I’m not one o’ those duds that pay you a thick ’un for an hour in the dark. We’re on the square, you an’ me. How d’ye do it?” “Do what?”