The first thing to do, of course, is to provide ourselves with means to go about, to shop, to arrange the preliminaries of our adventure! That five pounds which Mr. Chesterton advanced to his new client (smiling as he did so) will not do more than pay our bill at the Home for Independent Cats, as Million calls this Kensington place. Mr. Chesterton not only smiled, he laughed outright when we presented ourselves at the Chancery Lane office together once more. I was again spokeswoman and I came to the point at once. "We want some more money, please." "Not an uncommon complaint," said the old lawyer. "But, pardon me, I have no money of yours! You mean Miss Million wants some more money?" I hope he doesn't think I'm a parasite of a girl who clings on to little Million because she's happened to inherit a fortune. Rather angrily I said: "We both want it; because until Miss Million has some more she cannot pay me my salary!" He looked a little amazed at this, but he did not say anything about his surprise that I was in a salaried capacity to my little friend. He only said: "Well! How much do you--and Miss Million--want? Five pounds again? Five hundred----" "Oh, not five hundred all at once," gasped the awe-struck Million; "I'd never feel I could go to sleep with it----" While I cut in abruptly: "Yes, five hundred will do for us to arrange ourselves on." Thereupon the old lawyer made the suggestion that was to be fraught with such odd consequences. "Wouldn't it be more convenient," he said, "if an account could be opened in Miss Million's name at a bank?" "That will do," said Miss Million's maid (myself), while Miss Million gazed round upon the black dispatch-boxes of the office. Ten minutes later, with a cheque for £500 clutched tightly in Miss Million's hand, also a letter from Mr. Chesterton to Mr. Reginald Brace, the manager, we found ourselves at the bank near Ludgate Circus that Mr. Chesterton had recommended. Million was once more doddering with nervousness. Once more Miss Million's new maid had to take it all upon herself. "Mr. Brace," I demanded boldly over the shoulder of an errand-lad who was handing in slips of paper with small red stamps upon them. One moment later and we were ushered into the manager's private room. Yet another second, and that room seemed echoing with Million's gleeful shriek of "Why! Miss Beatrice! See who it is? If it isn't the gent from next door!" She meant the manager. I looked up and faced the astonished blue eyes in his nice sunburnt face. Yes! It was the young man from No. 44 Laburnum Grove; "the insufferable young bounder" on whose account I had got into those "rows" with Aunt Anastasia. So this was Mr. Reginald Brace, the bank manager! This was where he took the silk hat I'd seen disappearing down the grove each morning at 9.30.