The history of Mr. Fall and his millions is simple. Like all Canadian millionaires he was born near Limerick and emigrated, with his parents, to Canada at the age of three. For a time he was dancing-master and chucker-out in a _cabaret_ in Toronto; but, deciding that that was a discreditable profession, bought some newspapers and edited them in such an original way that he very soon became a Force. Throughout this time he never failed to consult his mother at every turn, and though in doing so he sometimes made mistakes, he never missed an opportunity of saying that a man’s best friend is his mother; and when, at the age of thirty, having been a Force in Canada for some years, he came to England, he wrote to his mother, who of course lived in Winnipeg, every day, saying that a man should be grateful to the woman who gave him birth. In England Mr. Fall went on being a millionaire until the war broke out, when he at once became a multi-millionaire. He was offered a knighthood for his services on the field of finance, but humbly refused the honour in a letter which, his newspapers said, was that of a simple, sincere and great-hearted man and should be a historic model for all letters refusing knighthoods. Later on he refused a baronetcy in the same simple and sincere way, excusing himself to his friends on the grounds that his mother wouldn’t like him making a guy of himself; and when some one said that Canadians can’t be choosers Mr. Fall biffed him one. About the time when George Tarlyon and I were going to dine with him he was said to be about to accept a barony, excusing himself on the ground that he was getting too old for letter-writing. Mr. Fall had not married. II I had never actually met Mr. Fall, but when we did meet he said he was pleased to know me, so that was all right. “You will, of course, have a cocktail,” he said. “Of course,” we said. “My own particular make,” Mr. Fall told us. “Instead of shaking them I stir them with a shagreen shoe-horn steeped in Chartreuse.” “Perfect it is,” I assured him. With the cocktails were caviare sandwiches. “They go together very well,” said George Tarlyon. When they had gone, we dined. Somewhere near us, but not in the room, sang a _ukelele_: near enough to be enjoyed, far enough not to distract, a gentle noise, a mezzotint noise, unrecognisable and remote. And then in the fulness of time, the table was cleared, and there was coffee. “You will like the brandy,” said Mr. Fall, as Tarlyon hesitated on the butler’s question. We liked the brandy very much. “Leave it,” said Mr. Fall; and the butler left us. “It’s like this,” he began; and he put both elbows on the table, and in one hand he waved a cigar and with the other he caressed his chin. Seriously he glanced from one to the other of us; he was a man with a courteous eye.