“By the way,” he remarked softly, “her boy’s just come back. Got shot through one of his lungs. Extraordinary thing--miracle almost. He’s made a marvellous recovery, thanks entirely to a motor ambulance being handy. They got him to the base hospital, and now he’s almost convalescent. Aren’t you glad you subscribed, Stephen?” “Of course I’m glad. I don’t give money unless I want to.” “You are very good about it, Stephen--very. I was wondering whether”--Peter Knott looked up at Ringsmith--“you’d feel like giving me another little cheque. You know these ambulances break down dreadfully fast. Fresh ones are always wanted, and with the new campaign--” “Really, Peter, you try me pretty high. It’s give, give, give. You seem to think that I’ve got a bottomless pocket.” “Not exactly bottomless, Stephen.” “But I say you do. I can’t go on like this. Every day there’s some new demand. Look at this.” He took a type-written letter from the table and handed it to his friend. Peter Knott stuck his eyeglass into his eye and slowly read the letter. “I say, Stephen, this must be the wrong letter. It’s from those wheelworks of yours, telling you they’ve got so many orders they can’t execute them, and that there’s a new contract from the Government. They want to extend the works.” “Well, damn it! doesn’t that mean more money, and the Government takes pretty nearly all the profit. You seem to forget that money’s wanted in business. I shall have to shut up shop if this goes on. D’you think giving employment to hundreds of workmen isn’t worth something, too? I’m thinking very seriously of closing Crossways Hall altogether; in fact, I should, only that it would cost me almost as much as keeping it open. There’s no man in the country who has done more in the public interest than I have, but there’s a limit to everything.” Ringsmith scowled at Peter, who made no attempt at replying. “By the way, Ringsmith, did you know Whelan is over here? I met him quite by chance yesterday. Seems he’s come over on a large Government contract for shells. He asked after you. Told me about a Corot you sold him some years ago. He seemed to think he’d paid a big price.” “Well, he didn’t.” The tone of Ringsmith’s reply was irritable. Peter Knott stopped putting on his gloves and looked at Ringsmith inquiringly. “Not a big price? He told me £7,500.” “Oh, he told you that, did he? Have you any idea what kind of expenses there are in a transaction of that kind?” “Not the slightest, Stephen.” “You don’t seem to realize that there are not many people who have the antipathy to being mixed up in art deals that you have.” “Ah!” Peter Knott moved to the door. “Good-bye, Stephen,” he murmured, and closed it gently behind him. * * * * * By the first post in the morning Peter Knott received the following letter-- DEAR PETER,