It was a different Whitey who made an appearance at the appointed hour. An urbane, deferential, unruffled man, who piloted a youth to the office of J. Lambaire. Francis Sutton was a good-looking boy, though the scowl that he thought it necessary to wear for the occasion disfigured him. Yet he had a grievance, or the shreds of one, for he had the uncomfortable feeling that he had been tricked and made a fool of, and generally ill-treated. It had been made clear to him that when that man of the world, Lambaire, had showed a preference for his society, had invited him to dinner, and had introduced him more than once to the Whistlers, it was not because the “financier” had taken a sudden fancy to him--not even because Lambaire had known his father in some far-off time--but because Lambaire wanted to get something out of him. By what means of realization this had come to him it is no province of mine to say. The sweetest, the dearest, the most tender of woman being human, for all her fragrant qualities, may, in some private moment, be sufficiently human to administer a rebuke in language sufficiently convincing to bring a foolish young man to his senses. The scowl was on his face when he came into Lambaire’s private office. Lambaire was sitting at his big desk, which was littered with the mechanism of commerce to an unusual extent. There was a fat account-book open on the table before him, letters lay stacked in piles on either hand, and his secretary sat, with open note-book, by his side. An imposing cheque-book was displayed before him, and he was very busy indeed when Whitey ushered his charge into this hive of industry. “Ah, Mr. Sutton!” he said, answering with a genial smile the curt nod of the other, “glad to see you. Make Mr. Sutton comfortable, White--I’ve one or two things to finish off.” “Perhaps,” said the young man, relaxing a little, “if I came a little later----?” “Not at all, not at all.” Lambaire dismissed the supposition that he was too deeply employed to see him at once with a wave of the hand. “Sit down,” he pleaded, “only for one moment. Are you ready, Grene?” “Yes, sir.” “Dear sir,” dictated Lambaire, leaning back in his padded chair, “we have pleasure in enclosing a cheque for four thousand six hundred and twenty-five pounds seven and fourpence, in payment of half-yearly dividends. Full stop. We regret that we were not able to allot you any shares in our new issue; the flotation was twenty times over subscribed. Yours, etc. Got that?” “Yes, sir,” said the unmoved Grene. Could this be the adventurer his sister had pictured? thought the young man. Would a man of this type stoop to lure him to a gaming-house for the gain of his few hundreds! “Send a cheque to Cautts--how much is it?” said Lambaire. “About six thousand,” said Grene at random. “And pay that little account of mine at Fells--it’s about four hundred--these wretched little wine bills mount up.”