"You are doubtless aware," began Lowndes, "that the iron trade in this country has long been going from bad to worse? You have heard of the bad times, I imagine, before to-day?" Harry nodded: he had heard of the bad times as long as he could remember. But because the happy conditions of his own boyhood had not been affected by the cry, he had believed that it was nothing else. He was punished now. "The times," proceeded Lowndes, "have probably been bad since your childhood. How old are you now?" "Twenty-one to-day." "To-day!" "Go on," said Harry, hoarsely. "Don't be sorry for me. I deserve very little sympathy." His hands were in the pockets he had wilfully emptied of every coin. "When you were five years old," continued Lowndes, "the pig-iron your father made fetched over five pounds a ton; before you were seven it was down to two-pounds-ten; it never picked up again; and for the last ten years it hasn't averaged two pounds. Shall I tell you what that means? For these ten years your father has been losing a few shillings on every ton of pig-iron produced--a few hundred pounds every week of his life!" "And I was enjoying myself at school, and now in Africa! Oh," groaned Harry Ringrose, "go on, go on; but don't waste any pity on me." "You may be a very rich man, but that sort of thing can't last for ever. The end is bound to come, and in your father's case it came, practically speaking, several years ago." "Several years? I don't follow you. He never failed?" "It would have been better for you all if he had. You have looked upon this place as your own, I suppose, from as far back as you can remember down to this morning?" "As my father's own--decidedly." "It has belonged to his bankers for at least five years." "How do you know?" cried Harry hotly. "He told me himself, when I first came down here, now eighteen months ago. We met in London, and he asked me down. I was in hopes we might do business together; but it was no go." "What sort of business?"