wouldn’t have got a cent for praising her.”

“Good Lord! What a scoundrel! Why didn’t35 you tell him straight out instead of handing him that money?”

35

“Not me,” said Hank. “Have him maybe sink her at her moorings to-night, or play some dirty trick. To-morrow, with Tyrebuck’s letter in my hand, it will be different. But only for him, I wouldn’t have got her for nothing.”

“Only for yourself, you mean,” said George.

“Well, maybe,” said Hank.

36

36

CHAPTER VI JOE BARRETT

JOE BARRETT

THE DU CANE house on Pacific Avenue was—is, in fact—a monstrous affair, at least viewed as the residence of a single man. Old Harley’s tastes were big and florid and he had entertained on a large scale; at his death George would have sold or let the place, but something held him, maybe Harley’s ghost, for the old man’s personality was so strong that it had imprinted itself everywhere, so that to sell or let the place would, so George felt, have been equivalent almost to selling or letting the old man himself.

George had closed a lot of the rooms, cutting down the servants to four or five in number, reserving for himself only a sitting-room and a bedroom, a dressing-room and bathroom.

This morning, the morning after the Jake business, he was awakened by a knock at the door and the entrance of his valet Farintosh. He had picked up Farintosh in England as a sort of curio. He had been his valet at the Carlton Hotel. Farintosh’s father had been own man to the Marquis of Bristol, his grandfather butler to the37 Duke of Hamilton, his brother was head waiter at Boodle’s and his sister in service at Sandringham House. He had small side whiskers.

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Farintosh, having closed the door cautiously, 

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