“I am an ignoramus, that’s what I am. I ought really to go to school again. I have forgotten everything I learned there. Well, good afternoon, Mr. Schwartzbrod. Anything else I can do for you, you know, don’t hesitate to call on me. We financiers must stand by one another, while times are so bad in the city.” The young man stood at the head of the stairs, a cigar between his lips, and his hands deep in his trousers pockets, seeing which Mr. Schwartzbrod, who had tentatively made a motion to shake hands in farewell, thought better of it, and went down the stairs, at the bottom of which the silent Ponderby waited to open the door for him. When he reached the floor below Schwartzbrod cast one look over his shoulder up the stairs. The young man still stood on the landing, gazing contemplatively down upon his parting guest. He nodded pleasantly, and “Ta-ta,” he said, but the expression on Schwartzbrod’s face could not have shown greater perturbation if Satan himself had occupied Stranleigh’s place. “A very uncomfortable companion is an uneasy conscience, even in the city,” said Stran-leigh to himself, as he turned away. Schwartzbrod hailed a cab, and drove to his office in the city; anxious about the _Rajah_; glad he had secured the renewal of the charter without protest or investigation; uneasy regarding Stranleigh’s apparently purposeless remarks about pirates and Lisbon. Arriving at his office, he rang for his confidential clerk. “Any word from Lisbon?” he demanded. “Yes, sir. The same code word. No sign of the _Rajah_ there, sir.” “How long is it since you sent warning to all our agents along the Atlantic coast and the Mediterranean to look out for her?” “Just a week to-day, sir, and a wire came in shortly after you left, from our man at Brest. I’d have telephoned you, sir, if I had known where you had gone.” “Give it to me, give it to me, give it to me,” repeated Schwartzbrod impatiently. He clutched it in his trembling hands, and read: “Steamer flying English flag, named _Rajah_ Wilkie captain, in roadstead to-day. Unloading ore into lugger.” The moral Mr. Schwartzbrod now gave way to a paroxysm of bitter language that was dreadful to hear, but his stolid clerk seemed used to it, and bent his head before the storm. During a lull for lack of breath he ventured one remark: “It can’t be our ship, sir. Our man is Captain Simmons.”