“Pretty people to treat a son of mine like dirt,” he said disdainfully. “The mother is head over heels in debt; the girl only looks presentable because she does a little writing. Why don’t you make up to the mother?” The young man turned round, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, discontent eloquently written on his face. “The mother’s all right,” he grumbled. “I can twist Mrs. Yale round that.” He held up a stodgy little finger. “If it was only the mother there would be no trouble. It’s the girl.” “Give her presents; women like that sort of thing!” suggested his father, but the young man shook his head. “I’ve given her----” He stopped. “What?” “Oh, lots of things!” said the youth vaguely. His conscience was troubling him a little. Something was very much on his mind. There is an intense sympathy between some fathers and some sons which is generally all to the good. It sometimes, however, works out to the embarrassment of one of the partners. De Costa _père_ had a trick of catching mind impressions; and now there came to him the recollections of something he wished to say. “By the way,” he said carelessly, “Miss Yale has something which I should very much like to possess.” The youth made no attempt to discover what that something was. He glanced a little apprehensively at his parent and waited. “Miss Yale,” the other went on, “has a bangle, which, from the description I have had of it, must be the very companion of one which I have been scouring the world to secure, and which that thief Song-lu of Nanping swore he had dispatched to me by registered post.” He rose from the table too, a scowl on his unpleasant face. “It cost me over a thousand pounds to find, and another thousand to buy,” he said; “and Song-lu expects me to believe that he entrusted it to the registered post!” “When ought it to have arrived?” stammered Gregory, very red in the face and horribly conscious of a desire to bolt. “During my absence in China,” said his father. Then, sharply: “You saw nothing of a bangle, did you?” Gregory de Costa cleared his throat. “I wanted to say--I’ve had an uncomfortable feeling,” he said incoherently, “that a bangle came to me--at least I thought it was for me--some old curio that you’d picked up, governor. I hadn’t any idea it was for you; it was just addressed ‘Mister de Costa’.” “Ah, you’ve got it!” There was relief and pleasure in Raymond de Costa’s face. The son hesitated. “Well,” he said, “I haven’t exactly got it. As a matter of fact I thought you meant me to give it away--so I gave it!” De Costa stared at his son open-mouthed. His face went paler and paler with almost unconquerable rage. “Gave it away?” he said at last, restraining himself with the greatest effort. “And to whom did you give it, you precious fool?” “I gave it to Miss Yale,” said the young man sullenly. “How was I to know?”