“You’re a good chap, Whitey,” soothed Lambaire, “a wonderful chap; well?” “Well,” said the ruffled man in the chair, “I had a talk with the boy--very sulky, very sulky, Lambaire; huffy, didn’t want to have any truck with me; and his sister--phew!” He raised his two hands, palms outwards, as he recalled the trying interview. “She gave me the Ice,” he said earnestly, “she was Cold--she was Zezo; talking to her, Lambaire, was like sitting in a draught! Br-r!” He shivered. “Well, what about the boy?” Whitey smiled slyly. “Huffish, haughty, go to--you know where--but reasonable. He’s got the hang of the Whistler. It was like catching a kicked cat to get him back. He put on his dam’ Oxford and Eton dressing--haw--haw!--_you_ know the voice. Awfully sorry, but the acquaintance had better drop--he’d made a mistake; no thank you, let the matter drop; good morning, mind the step.” Whitey was an indifferent mimic, but he conveyed the sense of the interview. “But he couldn’t shake me--I was a sticker, I was the boy on the burning deck; he opened the door for me to go out, and I admired his geraniums; he rang the bell for a servant, and I said I didn’t mind if I did; he fumed and fretted, walked up and down the room with his hands in his pockets; he told me what he thought of me and what he thought of you.” “What does he think of me?” said Lambaire quickly. “I’d rather not say,” said Whitey, “you’d be flattered--I don’t think. He thinks you are a gentleman--no! Don’t mind about a trifle like that. I sat down and argued with him. He said you were evidently the worst kind of waster.” “What did you say to that?” demanded Lambaire with a frown. “I denied that,” said Whitey virtuously; “not the worst kind, I said; anyway, the interview ended by his promising to come up here this afternoon.” Lambaire paced the room in thought. “What good will that do?” he asked. Whitey raised imploring eyes to heaven. “Hear me,” he said, addressing an invisible deity. “Hark to him. I spend all the morning working for him, and he wants to know what is the good.” He got up slowly and polished his hat with his sleeve. “Here, don’t go,” said Lambaire. “I want to know a lot more. Now, what is he prepared to do?” “Look here, Lambaire.” Whitey dropped all pretence at deference and geniality, and turned on the other with a snarl. “This kid can get at the chart. This diamond mine of ours has got to be more tangible than it is at present or there is going to be trouble; things are going rotten, and you know it.” “And suppose he won’t part with it?” “It is not a question of his parting with it,” said Whitey; “he hasn’t got it; it is his sister who has it. He’s his father’s son, you’ve got to remember that. You can bet that somewhere, tucked away out of sight inside him, he’s got the old adventure blood; these sort of things don’t die out. Look at me; my father was a----”