contemplated,” he said, the blood rising to his face, “never for a moment, that you would part with the stocks without reference to me, Mr. Ovington.” 

 “Precisely, precisely—without your authority, Sir Charles—except at a really good profit. I think that four or five hundred was mentioned? Just so. Well, if you will look at this draft, which of course includes the price of the stocks—they cost, if I remember, fourteen hundred or thereabouts—you will, I hope—I really hope—approve of what I did.” 

 Sir Charles adjusted his glasses, and frowned at the paper. He was prepared to be displeased and to show it. “Two thousand six hundred,” he muttered, “two thousand six hundred and twenty-seven!” his jaw dropping in his surprise. “Two thousand six—really! Ah, well, I certainly think—” with a quick change to cordiality that would have amused an onlooker—“that you acted for the best. I am obliged to you, much obliged, Mr. Ovington. A handsome profit.” 

 “I felt sure that you would approve,” the banker assented gravely. “Shall Bourdillon put the draft—Arthur, be good enough to place this draft to Sir Charles Woosenham’s account. And tell Mr. Wolley and Mr. Grounds—I think they are waiting—to come in. I ask your pardon, Mr. Acherley,” approaching him in turn. 

 “No plum for me, I suppose?” growled that gentleman, whom the gist of the interview with Sir Charles had not escaped. He was a tall, hatchet-faced, dissipated-looking man, of an old family, Acherley of Acherley. He had been a dandy with Brummell, had shaken his elbow at Watier’s when Crockford managed it, had dined at the Pavilion; now he vegetated in the country on a mortgaged estate, and on Sundays attended cock-fights behind the village public-house. 

 “Well, not to-day,” Ovington answered pleasantly. “But when we have shaken the tree a little——” 

 “One may fall, you think?” 

 “I hope so. You will be unlucky if one does not.” 

 The two men who had been summoned came in, each after his fashion. Wolley entered first, endeavoring to mask under a swaggering manner his consciousness that he stood in the presence of his betters. A clothier from the Valleys and one of Ovington’s earliest customers, he had raised himself, as the banker had, and from the same stratum; but by enlarging instead of selling his mill. During the war he had made much money and had come to attribute his success a little more to his abilities and a little less to 

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