it him. My lawyer will have the matter in hand, Parrott, and if it can be proved that you cling to your habit of meanness, and do not oblige a man when asked to do so, your income ceases. 

 "I shall not interfere with your position here. It will be the same when my successor takes the management. And this contract will be known to nobody but ourselves and my lawyer. Now, what do you say? Will five hundred pounds a year help you to get rid of that habit of yours? Don't be afraid to say so if you would rather not have the legacy." 

 George Early listened in amazement, as the head clerk murmured his thanks; and his astonishment was further increased by the astounding ingenuity of "Old Joe," who laid bare the plan of the legacy in its minutest detail. The lawyers were to follow their own methods in keeping observation on the legatees, and in due course would warn them of a breach of agreement. Three warnings were accorded before the legacy was lost. 

 "Not a word to any one, mind," said Joseph Fairbrother, as Parrott prepared to depart. "Just put yourself in training, that's all. Send Mr. Busby to me." 

 The head clerk departed, and a few minutes later Busby came in. 

 Albert Busby was the firm's cashier, one of the oldest of the staff, yet still a young man, being under forty. In appearance he was the most pious of black-haired Sunday School teachers; in reality it was difficult to get a word of truth from his lips. Lying was not part of his business, but distinctly a hobby, and it came as naturally to him as if he had been taught from birth. 

 Old Fairbrother offered Busby a cigar, then delineated his character in the same way as he had done that of Parrott A legacy of £500 a year awaited Busby if he chose to give up his habit of lying and stick to the truth. Of course, Busby readily consented. He said for the future no lie should ever pass his lips. 

 "You'll lose the money if it does," said "Old Joe," laconically. 

 The third and last man to be interviewed was Gray—Jimmy Gray, the accountant. Gray's face told its own tale, and those who couldn't read it had only to note Gray's movements, which were too often in the direction of a public-house. 

 The drink habit had Gray fairly in its toils, but he was willing to give it up for £500 a year, and he honestly believed he could. 

 When "Old Joe" stood alone 

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