“So I understand. Why doesn’t Jack confine himself to the comparative honesty of the dice? What does he want to muddle about in the city for?” “I suppose because he hasn’t got thirty thousand a year.” “Very likely; very likely. Yes, that strikes me as a sufficient explanation. All right, Mr. Mac-keller, take your ten minutes, and try to make your statement as simple as possible. I hope statistics do not come into it. I’ve no head for figures.” “My father,” began the young man, with blunt directness, “is a stockbroker in the city. The firm is Mackeller and Son. I am the son.” “You don’t look to me like a stockbroker. That is, what I’ve always expected such a person to be: I’ve never met one.” “No, I’m in reality a mining engineer.” “But, my dear sir, you have just said you were a stockbroker.” “I said my father was.” “You said Mackeller and Son, and that you were the son.” “Yes, I am a partner in the firm, but, nevertheless, a mining engineer.” “Do stockbrokers make mining engineers of their sons?” “One of them did. My father is a rigidly honest man, and preferred me to be an engineer.” His lordship’s eyebrows again elevated themselves. “An honest man and a stockbroker? Ah, you _do_ interest me, in spite of my pessimism.” “The great difficulty,” went on Mackeller, unheeding, “is to obtain an honest estimate of the real value of any distant mining property which is offered for sale in London. There has never been a mining swindle floated on the public which has not had engineer’s reports by men of high standing, showing it to possess a value which after events proved quite unreliable. So my father made me a mining engineer, and before he touches any property of this nature, or advises his clients to invest, he compels the promoters to send me out to the mine, and investigate.” “I see,” said his lordship, with almost a glimmer of comprehension in his eyes. “Rather a shrewd old man, I take it. He protects himself and his customers, provides a good livelihood for you, his son, and that at the expense of the promoters. Excellent. Go on.” For the first time young Peter Mackeller smiled. “Yes,” he said, “my father is very shrewd. He comes from the North, but for once he has got nipped, and the next few hours will decide whether the accumulations of a lifetime are swept away or not. Indeed,” he continued, glancing at his watch, “that will be decided within eight minutes, depending on whether I interest you or not.” “Continue,” commanded his lordship.