"Ah! Mr. Clithero, I'm glad to see you." Isaacson, attired in a resplendent afternoon lounge suit, entered the room, a large cigar held in the corner of his mouth. He appeared a strange figure in the midst of the almost feminine luxury of his apartment, and yet there was something about the man which rather appealed to Mostyn. There was a good-humoured twinkle in his dark eyes, and a certain sincerity about his lips which rather belied his reputation for hardness. A sharp man of business, one who would insist upon his pound of flesh, but honest withal--so Mostyn summed him up. "Nice little place I've got here, eh?" The Jew gazed complacently round the ornate apartment, fully conscious of the immense value of the draperies, of the pictures, and of the various objects of art. There was hardly anything that was not a _chef d'oeuvre_ in its way. "I am glad you have come to see me. But why not at Epsom? I should have thought that you would have been down for the first day's racing." He offered Mostyn a cigar, and then proceeded to discuss the prospects for the morrow's Derby. "Fancy!" he said, as Mostyn, in obedience to his invitation, seated himself and lit the cigar which he had accepted. "When I heard there was a Clithero to see me, I fancied it was someone else altogether. It was lucky you gave my man your Christian name as well as your surname, for I shouldn't have been at home to any other Clithero. By the way, it never struck me before, and I hope you won't be insulted by the question--you're no relation to that blatant, conceited, self-righteous prig, old John Clithero, the banker, are you? But of course, it's not likely, a sportsman like you----" "I am John Clithero's son," Mostyn said quietly. "God of my fathers!" Isaacson muttered another exclamation under his breath, which Mostyn failed to understand, but which he took to be a Hebrew oath. "You the son of John Clithero? Well, I'd never have believed it--never! I'm sorry--I'm downright sorry, if I've offended you, but really, upon my word, you know, I never associated you with that lot. Now I come to think of it, though, I believe I did see something in the paper--but I forgot all about it, and I didn't know you then. There's no friendship between your father and me, Mr. Clithero," he went on, "but you--well, that's a different matter. I admire your pluck; a true sportsman always appeals to me." He had begun his apology awkwardly, but he ended it with candour, stretching out his hand, which Mostyn took readily enough. "To think that you're a son of John Clithero!" the Jew repeated. "Well, that beats everything."