“Trouble?” Gilbert laughed bitterly. “My dear good chap, I am always in trouble. Haven’t I been in trouble since the first day I met you? I want you to do something for me,” he went on briskly. “You were talking the other day about money. I have recognised the tragedy of my own dependence. I have got to get money, and get it quick.” He spoke briskly, and in a matter-of-fact tone, but Leslie heard a determination which had never formed part of his friend’s equipment. “I want to know something about shares and stocks and things of that sort,” Gilbert went on. “You’ll have to instruct me. I don’t suppose you know much about it yourself”--he smiled, with a return to the old good-humour--“but what little you know you’ve got to impart to me.” “My dear chap,” protested the other, “why the devil are you worrying about a thing like that for on your honeymoon? Where is your wife, by the way?” “Oh, she’s at the house,” said the other shortly. He did not feel inclined to discuss her, and Leslie, in his amazement, had sufficient tact to pass over the subject. “I can tell you all I know now, if you want a tip,” he said. “I want something bigger than a tip--I want investments. I want you to tell me something that will bring in about twelve thousand a year.” Leslie stopped and looked at the other. “Are you quite----?” he began. Gilbert smiled, a crooked little smile. “Am I right in my head?” he finished. “Oh, yes, I am quite sane.” “But don’t you see,” said the other, “you would want a little over a quarter of a million to bring in that interest.” Gilbert nodded. “I had an idea that some such amount was required. I want you to get me out between to-night and to-morrow a list of securities in which I can invest and which must be gilt-edged, and must, as I say, secure for me, or for my heirs, the sum I have mentioned.” “And did you,” asked the indignant Leslie, “bring me to this beastly place on a hot afternoon in June to pull my leg about your dream investments?” But something in Gilbert’s face checked his humour. “Seriously, do you mean this?” he asked. “Seriously, I mean it.” “Well, then, I’ll give you the list like a shot. What has happened--has uncle relented?” Gilbert shook his head. “He is not likely to relent,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I had a note to-day from his secretary to tell me that he is pretty ill. I’m awfully sorry.” There was a genuine note of regret in his tone. “He is a decent old chap.” “There’s no reason why he should hand over his wealth to the ‘demnition bow-wows,’” quoted Leslie indignantly. “But why did you meet me here, my son? Your club is round the corner.” “I know,” said Gilbert; “but the club is--well, to tell you the truth,” he said, “I am giving up the club.” “Giving up your club?” He stood squarely before the taller man. “Now just tell me,” he asked deliberately, “what the Dickens all this means? You’re giving up your club, you’ll be giving up your Foreign Office job next, my Crœsus!”