On the other side of the doors is a small counter where a man in uniform checks, with keen glance, each passer-by. Beyond the counter are two rooms, one leading to the other, shaped like the letter "L," and in the longer of the two sit, in innumerable pews, quiet men with fat notebooks. From desk to desk flutter the brokers bargaining their risks, and there is a quiet but eager buzz of voices through which, at intervals, boom the stentorian tones of the porter calling by name the members whose presence is required outside. A stout man made a slow progress down one of the aisles, calling at the little pews _en route_, making notes in a silver-mounted book he held in his hand. He stopped before the pew of one of the biggest underwriters. "_Taglan Castle?_" he said laconically, and the underwriter looked up over his spectacles, then down at the slip of paper the man put before him. "One per cent.?" he asked, in some surprise, and the other nodded. "How much?" he asked. The underwriter tapped the slip of paper before him. "Ten thousand pounds at 5_s._ per centum," he said. "I can do that." He initialled the slip, and the man passed on. He went the round of the room, stopped to exchange a joke with an acquaintance, then descended the stone stairs. Back to his stuffy little office went the broker, with little thought that he had been engaged in any unusual variety of business. In his private room he found his client; a thick-set man with a straggling beard, who rose politely as the broker entered, and removed the cigar he had been smoking. "You have finish'?" he said, with a slightly foreign accent, and the broker smiled. "Oh, yes!"--a little pompously, after the manner of all Lloyd's brokers--"no difficulty about the _Taglan_, you know. Mail ship, new steamer, no risks practically on the Cape route; rather a bad business for you; you'll lose your premium." He shook his head with a show of melancholy, and took a pinch of snuff. "I have a dream," said the foreigner hastily, "ver' bad dream. I have belief in dreams." "I daresay," said the broker indulgently. "A sister of mine used to have 'em, or said she had; dreamt a tiger bit her, and, sure enough, next day she lost her brooch." He sat at his desk, signed a receipt, counted some notes, and locked them in his drawer. "You won't get your policies for a day or so," he said; "you're staying----" "At the Hotel Belgique," said the client, and, pocketing his receipts, he rose. "Good-day," said the broker, and opened the door. With a slight bow, his client departed, and reached the street. There was a taxi-cab drawn up before the door, and two or three gentlemen standing on the pavement before the office. "Cab, sir?" said the driver, but the foreigner shook his head. "I think you had better," said a voice in French, and a strong hand grasped his arm.