Lord Stranleigh sat at ease in one of the comfortable leather-covered armchairs which helped to mitigate the austerities of life in the smoking room of the Camperdown Club. His attitude was one of meditation. The right leg was thrown over the left; his finger tips met together, and those rather fine, honest eyes of his were staring through the thin film of smoke, and apparently seeing nothing. One of the men who had successfully borrowed money from him the day before, and whose salutation Lord Stranleigh ignored, not on account of the borrowed money, but simply because he had not seen the borrower, remarked to some friends that Stranleigh thought he was thinking, which caused a laugh, as these people did not know that the same remark had been made many years before, and were also under the delusion that Stranleigh was incapable of thought. The Camperdown Club, as everyone knows, is more celebrated as a center of sport than as a resort of business men, yet it has two or three of the latter on its very select list of members. One of these entered, paused at the door, and looked about him for a moment as if wishing to find a chair alone, or searching for some friend whom he expected to meet. This was Alexander Corbitt, manager of Selwyn’s Bank, a smooth-faced, harsh-featured man, under whose direction this bank, although a private institution, stood almost as high in public estimation as the Bank of England itself. As Corbitt stood there, the dreamy nature of Lord Stranleigh’s gaze changed into something almost approaching alertness. “Corbitt,” he said, “here’s a chair waiting for you.” The banker, without hesitation, strode forward, and sat down. There was a certain definite directness about each movement of his body which contrasted strikingly with the indifferent, indolent air assumed by most of the members; a decisive man of iron nerve, even one who knew little of him might have summed him up. “What will you imbibe?” asked Stranleigh. “Nothing, thank you. I just dropped in at the club for a bite of dinner, and having a few moments to spare, will now indulge in one cigar; then I must return to the bank.” “What, at this hour of the evening? I thought banks closed at four o’clock, or is it three?” “I expect to be there all night,” said Corbitt, shortly, as he held a match to his cigar. “I wanted to ask you a few questions.” “Ask them.” “You know I am as ignorant as a child of all matters pertaining to finance, high and low?” “Yes, I know that.” “What’s all this fuss about, Corbitt?” “What fuss?” “Why, the accounts I read in the evening papers, and the morning papers, too, for that matter. They say there’s a panic in the city. Is there?” The banker laughed a little; a low, harsh, mirthless laugh. “Yes, there’s a panic,” he said. “You are not nipped in it, I hope. I was told you were dabbling in the city a while ago. Is that true?” “Oh, merely a small flutter, Corbitt, on behalf of some friends of mine.”