Gilbert gave him no encouragement to continue the subject, but the voluble young man went on-- “Take what the gods give you, my son,” he said. “Here you are with a Foreign Office appointment, an Under-Secretaryship looming in the near future, a most charming and beautiful bride in prospect, rich----” “I wish you wouldn’t say that,” said Gilbert sharply. “The idea is abroad all over London. Beyond my pay I have no money whatever. This car,” he said, as he saw the other’s questioning face, “is certainly mine--at least, it was a present from my uncle, and I don’t suppose he’ll want it returned before I sell it. Thank God it makes no difference to you,” he went on with that note of hardness still in his voice, “but I am half inclined to think that two-thirds of the friendships I have, and all the kindness which is from time to time shown to me, is based upon that delusion of riches. People think that I am my uncle’s heir.” “But aren’t you?” gasped the other. Gilbert shook his head. “My uncle has recently expressed his intention of leaving the whole of his fortune to that admirable institution which is rendering such excellent service to the canine world--the Battersea Dogs’ Home.” Leslie Frankfort’s jovial face bore an expression of tragic bewilderment. “Have you told Mrs. Cathcart this?” he asked. “Mrs. Cathcart!” replied the other in surprise. “No, I haven’t told her. I don’t think it’s necessary. After all,” he said with a smile, “Edith isn’t marrying me for money, she is pretty rich herself, isn’t she? Not that it matters,” he said hastily, “whether she’s rich or whether she’s poor.” Neither of the two men spoke again for the rest of the journey, and at the corner of St. James’s Street Gilbert put his friend down. He continued his way to the little house which he had taken furnished a year before, when marriage had only seemed the remotest of possibilities, when his worldly prospects had seemed much brighter than they were at present. Gilbert Standerton was a member of one of those peculiar families which seem to be made up entirely of nephews. His uncle, the eccentric old Anglo-Indian, had charged himself with the boy’s future, and he had been mainly responsible for securing the post which Gilbert now held. More than this, he had made him his heir, and since he was a man who did nothing in secret, and was rather inclined to garrulity, the news of Gilbert’s good fortune was spread from one end of England to the other. Then, a month before this story opens, had come like a bombshell a curt notification from his relative that he had deemed it advisable to alter the terms of his will, and that Gilbert might look for no more than the thousand pounds to which, in common with innumerable other nephews, he was entitled.