Peter looked up over his spectacles. “What sort of a job?”--his voice shook a little. “I ain’t so young as I used to be, an’ me heart’s not as strong as it was. It ain’t one of them darin’ wangles of yours----” Amber laughed. “Nothin’ so wicked, my desperado--how would you like to be the companion of a gentleman who is recovering from a very severe sickness: a sickness that has upset his memory and brought him to the verge of madness----” He saw the sudden alarm in Peter’s eyes. “No, no, he’s quite all right now, though there was a time----” He changed the subject abruptly. “I shall trust you not to say a word to any soul about this matter,” he said. “I have a hunch that you are the very man for the job--there is no guile in you, my Peter.” A knock at the door interrupted him. “Come in.” The handle turned, and Whitey entered. “Oh, here you are,” said Whitey. He stood by the door, his glossy silk hat in his hand, and smiled pleasantly. “Come in,” invited Amber. “You don’t mind?”--he looked at Peter. The old man shook his head. “Well?” “I’ve been lookin’ for you,” said Whitey. He took the chair Amber indicated. “I thought you might be here,” he went on, “knowing that you visited here.” “In other words,” said Amber, “your cab passed mine in the Strand, and you told the driver to follow me at a respectable distance--I saw you.” Whitey was not embarrassed. “A feller would have to be wide to get over you, Captain,” he said admiringly. “I’ve come to talk to you about----” He saw the prospectus on the table. “Ah! you’ve seen it?” “I’ve seen it,” said Amber grimly--“a beautiful production. How is the money coming in?” “Not too well, not too well,” lied Whitey, with a melancholy shake of the head. “People don’t seem to jump at it: the old adventurous spirit is dead. Some of the papers....” He shrugged his shoulders with good-natured contempt. “Very unbelievin’, these organs of public opinion,” said the sympathetic Amber, “fellers of little faith, these journalists.” “We didn’t give ’em advertisements,” explained Whitey--“that’s the secret of it.” “You gave the _Financial Herald_ an advertisement,” reflected Amber, “in spite of which they said funny things--you gave the _Bullion and Mining Gazette_ a good order, yet they didn’t let you down lightly.” Whitey changed direction. “What I want to see about,” he said slowly, “is this: you’ve had convincin’ proof that we’ve located the mine--would you like to come into the company on the ground floor?” The audacity of the offer staggered even Amber. “Whitey,” he said admiringly, “you’re the last word in refrigeration! Come in on the ground floor! Not into the basement, my Whitey!” “Can I speak to you alone?” Whitey looked meaningly in the direction of Peter, and Amber shook his head. “You can say what you’ve got to say here,” he said, “Peter is in my confidence.”