"Worth is a comparative term," said Hewson, calmly. "Financially, I agree: you’re not big enough to worry over. But it will afford me great pleasure and amusement, Mr. Ferguson—and from that point of view it _will_ be worth while." He took out his watch. "I’ll give you two minutes to decide." He got up and strolled round the room, glancing every now and then at the man sitting at the desk. In advance, he knew the answer: any man in Ferguson’s place would think twice and then again before he deliberately took up such a challenge. And quite accurately he read the thoughts that were passing in the other’s mind. Dare he gamble on the possibility of Hewson—as time went by—forgetting his threat, and letting the thing drop? That was the crux. It was an insignificant amount to a man like Hewson, but—was it the money that was at the bottom of it? While a man in Hewson’s position might well forget five thousand pounds, there might be some other factor which would not slip his mind. It suddenly occurred to Mr. Arthur Ferguson that there was a singularly attractive girl in the Crossley household. And if she was the driving factor ... One thing was perfectly certain; he would willingly pay five thousand to escape a relentless vendetta with Charles Hewson as his enemy. It was no idle threat on the latter’s part: if he chose to he could ruin him. "Well?" With a snap Hewson closed his watch. "What is it to be?" By way of answer Ferguson took out his cheque-book. "Good. Make your cheque payable to Mr. Crossley, and make it for ten thousand. I will give you a cheque for five. You can notify the company as to the transfer." He drew his own cheque-book from his pocket. "And another time, Mr. Ferguson, leave the Crossleys of this world alone. Good-morning." Mr. Arthur Ferguson was still staring dully out of the window when Charles Hewson entered a stamp shop in the Strand in search of a penny Mauritius. *IV* "I can hardly believe it. In just over a month. And the stamp as well. Mr. Hewson—I can never thank you sufficiently." Back in the sunny study at Umberleigh, Mr. Crossley stared dazedly—first at his precious stamp, then at the cheque. "Ten thousand pounds! I must write him a letter and thank him." "I’m sure Mr. Ferguson would like that," murmured Hewson. "But if I may give you a word of advice, Mr. Crossley, I wouldn’t try a gamble like that again. Mines are precarious things—very precarious." "You mean, I might have lost my money?" said the old man, nervously. "Such things have been known to happen," said Hewson, gravely. "By the way, is your daughter not at home?"