“A kindly thought,” said Cecil. “You’ll catch the special G.S.N. steamer direct for London at 1 a.m. That will get you into town before two o’clock to-morrow afternoon. Things have turned out as I expected, and I’ve nothing else to say to you; but, before leaving me, perhaps you had better repeat your instructions.” “With pleasure, sir,” said Lecky. “Tuesday afternoon.--I call at Cloak Lane and intimate that we want to sell Dry Goods shares. I ineffectually try to conceal a secret cause for alarm, and I gradually disclose the fact that we are very anxious indeed to sell really a lot of Dry Goods shares, in a hurry. I permit myself to be pumped, and the information is wormed out of me that Mr. Simeon Rainshore has disappeared, has possibly committed suicide; but that, at present, no one is aware of this except ourselves. I express doubts as to the soundness of the Trust, and I remark on the unfortunateness of this disappearance so soon after the lamentable panic connected with the lately vanished Bruce Bowring and his companies. I send our friends on ’Change with orders to see what they can do and to report. I then go to Birchin Lane and repeat the performance there without variation. Then I call at the City office of the _Evening Messenger_ and talk privily in a despondent vein with the financial editor concerning the Trust, but I breathe not a word as to Mr. Rainshore’s disappearance. Wednesday morning.--The rot in Dry Goods has set in sharply, but I am now, very foolishly, disposed to haggle about the selling price. Our friends urge me to accept what I can get, and I leave them, saying that I must telegraph to you. Wednesday afternoon.--I see a reporter of the _Morning Journal_ and let out that Simeon Rainshore has disappeared. The _Journal_ will wire to Ostend for confirmation, which confirmation it will receive. Thursday morning.--The bottom is knocked out of the price of Dry Goods shares. Then I am to call on our other friends in Throgmorton Street and tell them to buy, buy, buy, in London, New York, Paris, everywhere.” “Go in peace,” said Cecil. “If we are lucky, the price will drop to seventy.” V. “I see, Mr. Thorold,” said Geraldine Rainshore, “that you are about to ask me for the next dance. It is yours.” “You are the queen of diviners,” Cecil replied, bowing. It was precisely half-past nine on Thursday evening, and they had met in a corner of the pillared and balconied _salle de danse_, in the Kursaal behind the concert-hall. The slippery, glittering floor was crowded with dancers--the men in ordinary evening dress, the women very variously attired, save that nearly all wore picture-hats. Geraldine was in a white frock, high at the neck, with a large hat of black velvet; and amidst that brilliant, multicoloured, light-hearted throng, lit by the blaze of the electric chandeliers and swayed by the irresistible melody of the “Doctrinen” waltz, the young girl, simply dressed as she was, easily held her own.