As a matter of fact, he had hardly been in the hotel a quarter of an hour before he received an intimation from The Residency that Sir John could not be seen until ten o’clock that evening. “That settles all idea of going back to London,” said Jack despairingly. He met his fellow-passenger at dinner. Though he was not particularly well acquainted with the habits of Sir John, he knew that one of his fads was to dine late, and since he had no desire to spend a hungry evening, he advanced the normal dinner hour of the little hotel by thirty minutes. He explained this apologetically to the comfortable man who sat opposite him, as they discussed a perfectly roasted capon. “It suits me very well,” said the other, “I have a lot of work to do in the neighbourhood. You see,” he explained, “I am the proprietor of the Safe Agency.” “Safe Agency,” repeated the other wonderingly. The man nodded. “It seems a queer business, but it is a fairly extensive one,” he said. “We deal principally in safes and strong rooms, second-hand or new. We have a pretty large establishment in London; but I am not going to overstep the bounds of politeness”--he smiled--“and try to sell you some of my stock.” Frankfort was amused. “Safe Agency,” he said; “one never realises that there can be money in that sort of thing.” “One cannot realise that there is money in any branch of commerce,” said the other. “The money-making concerns which appeal are those where one sees brains being turned into actual cash.” “Such as----?” “Such as a lawyer’s business,” smiled the other. “Oh, yes, I know you are a lawyer, you are the type, and I should have known your trade if I had not seen your dispatch case, and then your name.” Jack Frankfort laughed. “You are sharp enough to be a lawyer yourself,” he suggested. “You are paying yourself a compliment,” said the other. Later, in the High Street, when he was calling a fly to drive him to The Residency, Jack noticed a big covered motor lorry, bearing only the simple inscription on its side: “The St. Bride’s Safe Company.” He saw also his pleasant companion speaking earnestly with the black-bearded chauffeur. A little later the lorry moved on through the narrow streets of the town and took the London Road. Jack Frankfort had no time to speculate upon the opportunities for safe selling which the little town offered, for five minutes later he was in Sir John Standerton’s study. The old General was of the type which is frequently depicted in humorous papers. He was stout and red of face, and wore a close-cut strip of white whisker, which ended abruptly below his ear, and was continued in a wild streak of white moustache across his face. He was bald, save for a little fringe of white hair which ran from temple to temple via the occiput, and his conversation might be described as a succession of explosions. He stared up from under his ferocious eyebrow, as the young man entered the study, and took stock of him.