Every stockbroker doing a popular and extensive business is confronted sooner or later with the delicate task of explaining to a rash and hazardous speculator exactly how rashly and at what hazard he has invested his money. Mr. Warrell had had occasion before to break, as gently as it was possible to break, unpleasant news of Mrs. Cathcart’s unsuccess. But never before had he been face to face with a situation so full of possibilities for disagreeable consequences as this which now awaited him. The impassive Cole admitted him, and the face of Cole fell, for he knew the significance of these visits, having learnt in that mysterious way which servants have of discovering the inward secrets of their masters’ and mistresses’ bosoms, that the arrival of Mr. Warrell was usually followed by a period of retrenchment economy and reform. “Madam will see you at once,” was the message he returned with. A few minutes later Mrs. Cathcart sailed into the drawing-room, a little harder of face than usual, thought Mr. Warrell, and wondered why. “Well, Warrell,” she said briskly, “what machination of the devil has brought you here? Sit down, won’t you?” He seated himself deliberately. He placed his hat upon the floor, and peeling his gloves, deposited them with unnecessary care in the satin-lined interior. “What is it?” asked Mrs. Cathcart impatiently. “Are those Canadian Pacifics down again?” “They are slightly up,” said Mr. Warrell, with a smile which was intended both to conciliate and to flatter. “I think your view on Canadian Pacifics is a very sound one.” He knew that Mrs. Cathcart would ordinarily desire nothing better than a tribute to her judgment, but now she dismissed the compliment, realising that he had not come all the way from Throgmorton Street to say kindly things about her perspicacity. “I will say all that is in my mind,” Mr. Warrell went on, choosing his words and endeavouring by the adoption of a pained smile to express in some tangible form his frankness. “You owe us some seven hundred pounds, Mrs. Cathcart.” She nodded. “You have ample security,” she said. “That I realise,” he agreed, addressing the ceiling, “but the question is whether you are prepared to make good in actual cash the differences which are due to us.” “There is no question at all about it,” she said brusquely, “so far as I am concerned, I cannot raise seven hundred shillings.” “Suppose,” suggested Mr. Warrell, with his eyes still upraised, “suppose I could find somebody who would be willing to buy your necklace--I think that was the article you deposited with us--for a thousand pounds?” “It is worth considerably more than that,” said Mrs. Cathcart sharply. “Possibly,” said the other, “but I am anxious to keep things out of the paper.” He had launched his bombshell. “Exactly what do you mean?” she demanded, rising to her feet. She stood glowering down at him.