Whitey accepted this statement as truth, as it was. Walking slowly back to his taxi-cab, he decided to see Amber. He was anxious to know whether he had read the prospectus. * * * * * Many copies of the prospectus had, as a matter of fact, come to Amber’s hands. Peter ... a dreamer, dabbled in stock of a questionable character. Amber called to see him one morning soon after his return to England, and found the little man, his glasses perched on the end of his nose, laboriously following the adventures of the explorers as set forth in the prospectus. Amber patted him on the shoulder as he passed at his back to his favourite seat by the window. “My Peter,” he said, “what is this literature?” Peter removed his glasses and smiled benignly. “A little affair,” he said--life was a succession of affairs to Peter. “A little affair, Amber. I do a little speculation now and then. I’ve got shares in some of the most wonderful wangles you ever heard tell of.” Amber shook his head. “Wangles pay no dividends, my Crœsus,” he said reproachfully. “You never know,” protested Peter stoutly. “I’ve got fifty shares in the Treasure Hill of the Aztec Company.” “Run by Stolvetch,” mused Amber, “now undergoing five of the longest and saddest in our royal palace at Dartmoor.” “It was a good idea.” Amber smiled kindly. “What else?” he asked. “I’ve got a founder’s share in the El Mandeseg Syndicate,” said Peter impressively. Amber smiled again. “Sunken Spanish treasure ship, isn’t it? I thought so, and I’ll bet you’ve got an interest in two or three gold-recovery-from-the-restless- ocean companies?” Peter nodded, with an embarrassed grin. “Let me see your prospectus.” The romantic Peter handed the precious document across the table. Amber read it carefully--not for the first time. “It’s very rum,” he said when he had finished, “very, very rum.” “What’s rum, Amber?” The other drew a cigarette-case from his pocket: selected one and lit it. “Everything is rum, my inveterate optimist,” he said. “Wasn’t it rum to get a letter from me from the wild and woolly interior of the dark and dismal desert?” “That was rum,” admitted Peter gravely. “I got all sorts of ideas from that. There’s a tale I’ve been readin’ about a feller that got pinched for a perfe’ly innercent crime.” Amber grinned. “He was sent to penal servitude, one day----” “I know, I know,” said Amber, “a fog rolled up from the sea, he escaped from the quarry where he had been workin’, friend’s expensive yacht waitin’ in the offin’--‘bang! bang!’ warders shootin’, bells ringin’, an’ a little boat all ready for the errin’ brother--yes?” Peter was impressed. “You’re a reader, Amber,” he said, with a note of respect in his voice. “I can see now that you’ve read _Haunted by Fate, or, The Convict’s Bride_. It’s what I might describe as a masterpiece. It’s got----” “I know--it’s another of the rum things of life--Peter, would you like a job?”