reasonably short space of time he had put by the $3,000 which were the price of his promotion to detective-sergeant. He did not like paying $3,000 for promotion, but there must be sinking of capital if an investment is to prosper. Mr. McEachern “came across”, and climbed one more step up the ladder.

As detective-sergeant he found his horizon enlarged. There was more scope for a man of parts. Things moved more rapidly. The world seemed full of philanthropists anxious to “dress his front” and do him other little kindnesses. Mr. McEachern was no churl. He let them dress his front; he accepted the little kindnesses. Presently he found that he had $15,000 to spare for any small flutter that might take his fancy. Singularly enough, this was the precise sum necessary to make him a captain.

He became a captain. And it was then that he discovered that El Dorado was no mere poet’s dream, and that Tom Tiddler’s Ground, where one might stand picking up gold and silver, was as definite a locality as Brooklyn or the Bronx. At last, after years of patient waiting, he stood like Moses on the mountain, looking down into the Promised Land. He had come to where the big money was.

The book he was reading now was the little note-book in which he kept a record of his investments, which were numerous and varied. That the contents were satisfactory was obvious at a glance. The smile on his face, and the reposeful position of his jaw were proof enough of that. There were notes relating to house property, railroad shares, and a dozen other profitable things. He was a rich man.

This was a fact which was entirely unsuspected by his neighbours, with whom he maintained somewhat distant relations, accepting no invitations and giving none. For Mr. McEachern was playing a big game. Other eminent buccaneers in his walk of life had been content to be rich men in a community where moderate means were the rule. But about Mr. McEachern there was a 24 touch of the Napoleonic. He meant to get back into society—the society of England. Other people have noted the fact—which had impressed itself very firmly on the policeman’s mind—that between England and the United States there are 3,000 miles of deep water. In the United States he would be a retired police-captain; in England an American gentleman of large and independent means with a beautiful daughter.

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That was the ruling impulse in his life—his daughter Molly. Though, if he had been a bachelor, he would certainly not have been satisfied to pursue 

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