“That is true, sir,” replied Douglas, whose face had considerably lengthened, “but I’m afraid I cannot manage the ready money—near a hundred pounds. Is my salary paid in advance?” “No, that is out of the question in a province where cholera carries a man off in a couple of hours. I am sorry about the passage; at one time we did pay, but now we have to pinch and consider our expenses. No doubt you would like to talk over the matter with your people?” “Well, yes, I should, thank you,” he answered, staring fixedly at the floor. “Then let me have your decision before mail day. I may tell you, Shafto, that, irrespective of Mr. Tremenheere’s interest, you have given us entire satisfaction, and for this chance, and it _is_ a chance, you have only yourself to thank. You can take a couple of days’ leave and let me hear from you definitely on Friday morning.” It was only eleven o’clock, an oppressively warm July day, and Douglas walked up to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, took a seat in the cool shade of the finest trees in the largest square in London, and there endeavoured to think out some plan. “I say, what a chance!” he muttered to himself. “What a stroke of luck! A new start in life, offering change and freedom.” Yet he must lose it—and all for a paltry hundred pounds. Paltry—no; to him it represented a huge and unattainable fortune; there wasn’t a soul from whom he could borrow; not from the Tebbs, nor the Tremenheeres, and his associates at “Malahide” were, with one detestable exception, as poor as himself. After long meditation, entirely barren of inspiration, he went down to the Strand and lunched at Slater’s, and then took the Tube to Bayswater Public Library, where he got hold of some books on Burma—Burma, the land of the Pagoda and Golden Umbrella. Somehow the very name fired his imagination and thrilled his blood.