The Project Gutenberg eBook, Love and the Ironmonger, by F. J. (Frederick John) Randall

LOVE AND THE
IRONMONGER

BY F. J. RANDALL

LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY. MCMVIII

WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.

CONTENTS

LOVE AND THE
IRONMONGER

A PLAIN TALE OF UPPER
THAMES STREET

Chapter I—What came to George Early through a Keyhole

The offices of Fairbrother and Co. were in the full swing of business when George Early sauntered in and took his accustomed place at a small desk.

"What time do you call this?" asked the head clerk severely, looking up from a ledger.

George looked at his watch.

"Half-past eight," he said intelligently; "that makes me half an hour late, doesn't it? Matter of fact, old chap, I——"

"That'll do," said the head clerk; "just you keep your place. And keep your time, too," he added warningly, "or else there'll be a vacancy in this office."

He marched off with a ledger under his arm, and George, with a wink at his nearest colleague, pulled a morning paper from an inner pocket and consulted the sporting column.

Fairbrothers' was an easy-going firm, that had the reputation of being good to its employees. If a man once got a seat on an office-stool there he was considered to have a berth for life, supposing of course that the iron trade and Upper Thames Street continued to exist. Fairbrothers' never dismissed a man unless he was a downright rogue, and in such a case it was believed that they secretly looked after him if he happened to be in a very bad way.

Nobody in the office minded much what was said unless Old Joe Fairbrother, the venerable head of the concern, happened to say it. If there was a threat of dismissal from anybody else the threatened man affected contrition and laughed up his sleeve. And although this general air of safety was as soothing to Thomas Parrott, the head clerk, as to anybody else, that admirable man's sense of duty compelled him to occasionally sound a warning note to his subordinates.

This morning the head clerk was in a bad temper, and found fault with everybody, especially with George Early.

"Who's been upsetting Polly?" asked George, looking round; "seems to have got 'em, doesn't he?"

"Wants a cracker," said the shorthand clerk; "got a bad attack of the pip."

"If he'd like his poll scratched," said George, impudently, "he's only got to say so."

A red-haired junior chimed in.

"It ain't that," he said; "Polly's looking for a new perch. Thinks Old Joe'll be wanting a manager soon."

Any reference to the head of the firm interested George.

"What's the matter with Old Joe?" he asked.

"Matter? What ain't the matter? you mean. Got one foot in the grave and the other on the edge. The poor old chap's fairly breaking up."

George turned thoughtfully to his work, but his mind ran on other things; the decay of the head of the firm opened up possibilities of promotion. A manager would be wanted soon.

To jump from the position of clerk to manager was unusual, but unusual things of that sort had a fascination for George Early. The work would just suit him; he always felt he was born to command. Compared with the other men in the office, George was quite a new hand; but the other men had less imagination and less confidence, and if they chose to follow the method of rising step by step it was their own affair.

The offices of Fairbrother and Co. were large and roomy, and occupied the lower part of an old-fashioned building in Upper Thames Street, adjoining a warehouse and a wharf. On the first floor facing the street and next to the showrooms was a large, handsome room. This was the private office of old Joseph Fairbrother, and no robber's cave with its glittering treasures had a greater fascination for any ambitious young man than had this apartment for George Early. The large roomy armchairs and the big safe appealed to him strongly. He liked to picture himself sitting in the biggest chair and sternly inquiring why certain orders had not been despatched a week ago; and he never went inside the door without the hope of coming out with an increase of salary.

The private office now became to George what the deserted wing of a country mansion is to the family ghost. If there was anything to go upstairs, he got it by hook or crook, and became the envoy. He liked to go best when the old gentleman was there, and when he wasn't George would look round the room, admire the handsome furniture, and stay as long as he dared. Sometimes he would carry up two letters and find that the room was empty. Then he would bring one down to make a second journey.

One morning he went up without anything at all. On this occasion he had seen Old Fairbrother in the lower office preparing to go out. George glanced around quickly, hoping that an umbrella or something of the sort had been left behind, so that he might dash after the retreating brougham. There was nothing.

"Just my luck!" he murmured, crossing to the window.

He looked out into the street, and, seeing that the brougham had departed, selected the biggest armchair, and from its depths thoughtfully perused the court column of a daily newspaper lying at hand.

Unfortunately he became so absorbed that he did not hear the familiar rattle of his employer's brougham as it returned and drew up outside, and it was not till the head of the firm was half-way up the stairs that he scented danger.

With alacrity George looked for means of escape, and at once turned to that which seemed easy and safe. This retreat was a private staircase which led direct from the room to the upper floors of the warehouse. He skipped across and closed the door behind him quickly and softly.

A second later old Joseph Fairbrother entered the room, and, as he did so, George Early found himself in another fix, for instead of passing through the door of the private staircase he had entered a tiny, box-like room which stood beside it. This room had no other outlet, and the venturesome clerk was a prisoner until his master chose to take himself off.

The young man selected the keyhole as a means of learning what was happening. It was a large keyhole, and he had ample means of proving that, so far as looks went, "Old Joe" had "one foot in the grave," as had been affirmed. To-day he looked older and more decrepit than usual, and for five minutes he did nothing but sit and look at the fire.

At the end of that time somebody else entered the room. George waited anxiously for the other party to come within range, and when he did so it proved to be Parrott.

"Sit down, Mr. Parrott," said Joseph Fairbrother; "one moment—hand me a cigar, please, and take one yourself."

The head clerk nervously helped himself to a cigar, and followed the lead of his chief as he lit up.

For another five minutes the old gentleman gazed abstractedly into the fire, finally shifting his gaze to the face of Parrott, who looked at everything in the room except his employer.

"Mr. Parrott," said Old Fairbrother, solemnly, "do you know why I have brought you here?"

The head clerk looked up with a start and coughed. He did not know why he had been brought there.

"Then I'll tell you," said his master. "I have made my will, Parrott, and I'm going to talk about a little legacy I have left you."

Parrott didn't know what to do, so he looked as bright as he could, and cleared his throat, as if to reply.

"Wait a minute," said the old gentleman, lifting a finger; "don't you thank me till you know what you're getting. I've had my eye on you, Parrott, for a good many years; I've watched you grow from a boy upwards, and I've noticed your good points and your bad ones. You're not the only one I have watched, but you're the only one I'm going to talk about now. When I have had my little say with you, there are others I shall talk to."

He took a long pull at his cigar, and allowed his eyes to rest on the uncomfortable Parrott, who seemed somewhat more doubtful of the issue of the interview than he had been a while ago.

"You're not my ideal of a man, Parrott," he continued; "but, of course, we all have our faults. You're a good man at your duty, and you believe in others doing their duty, which is right enough. There are not many in the office that love you, and I dare say you put it down to their selfishness and ignorance, or perhaps to envy. It isn't that, Parrott; it is you they don't like. They like a man who's sociable and one of them, and who's affable and generous. They don't like you because you're mean."

This home-thrust sent the colour rushing to the face of the head clerk, and the blood of his ancestors prompted him to get up and say—

"Really, sir, I——"

"All right, all right," interrupted his master, "this is just between ourselves. I don't say that you are all to blame. These things are sometimes born in us, and we are not always able to root them out. Now, don't you interrupt me, but listen to what I've got to say.

"You are a mean man, Parrott; but I am of opinion that you are mean by habit, and not by nature. Habits are things that we can get rid of if we choose. I want you to get rid of your habit.

"You know me, and you know that if I can use my wealth to reform a man, I will do it. I might leave a lot of money to societies, and still do little good with it; I might distribute it over a large surface so that it benefited nobody. That's not my way. I should be doing more good by making sure of three or four men. You need reforming, Parrott, because meanness is a curse, and no man who has it badly, as you have, will ever be the ideal of his fellow-creatures.

"I have made my will, and I have left you an income to begin on the day of my death. You will not have long to wait. When I die you will receive the sum of five hundred pounds yearly so long as you live."

Parrott nearly jumped out of his chair with joy.

"Stop a bit!" cried Old Fairbrother; "there are a few conditions tacked on to this. First and foremost is this: You will receive this income on condition that you get rid of your habit of meanness. That is to say, if a man asks you for a loan of half a crown, or half a sovereign, or, in fact, wants to borrow anything from you, you shall lend 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 once more, he took another long look at the fire. Then he gave a sigh, a smile, a shrug of the shoulders, and ended by putting on his hat and departing.

As soon as he was safely out of earshot, George Early stretched himself and walked thoughtfully into the middle of the big room.

Having arrived there, he gave voice to three words, audibly and distinctly: "Well, I'm hanged!"

Planting himself before the fire, he went musingly over the whole scene again. It was astounding. Three legacies of five hundred pounds a year each! George Early could scarcely realize the significance of it.

Presently, as he carefully thought over the matter, he began to smile, then to laugh; and when he finally returned to his office-stool, by way of a tour through the warehouse, he was bubbling over with mirth.

Chapter II—A Young Man in search of Bad Habits

The first thing that struck George Early on his arrival at the office next morning, was the extreme seriousness of the three legatees. Gray looked so sober and miserable that George was surprised at it passing unnoticed. For once Busby sat quietly in his office-seat, instead of entertaining Gray with some fictional incident of the night before. And Parrott was too occupied with his thoughts to give black looks to the late comers.

"A nice lot they are to get £500 a year!" thought George. "I call it a sin. It's a dead waste of money!"

He strolled over to Gray's desk. "Morning, Mr. Gray," he said affably.

"Good morning," said Gray, in a voice hoarse with temperance.

"Back that little thing yesterday?" asked George, in a whisper. "You know—Flower-of-the-Field for the Sub.?"

"No," said Gray.

"I did it," whispered George—"ten to one. Bit o' luck, wasn't it?"

Gray assented, and George leaned over the desk to be out of hearing of Busby. He touched Gray on the hand with one forefinger.

"I've got a drop of Scotch in the desk," he said; "real old stuff. Going to have a nip?"

A flash of eagerness came into Gray's eyes, and then died away.

"No, thanks," he said hastily; "I don't think I will. The fact is, I—I don't feel up to it this morning."

"Blue ribbon?" asked George, opening his eyes in wonder.

"No—oh no," answered Gray, with some confusion; "no, nothing of that."

"Then have a drop," said George, enjoying the struggles of his victim. "It's ten years old, and strong enough to break the bottle. Got it from a friend of mine who works in a distillery."

Gray's eyes glistened; but George moved off to Busby's desk before he had time to give way.

Busby looked up and nodded, then went on with his work. This was something out of the ordinary for Busby, who rarely missed an opportunity to gossip. George Early chuckled to himself and began to sharpen a pencil.

"Saw you last night, Mr. Busby," he said presently. "Nice little girl, that sister-in-law of yours. Fine figure she has, too."

Busby rubbed his chin a moment, and became deeply interested in his work.

"She's not my sister-in-law," he said slowly.

"No?" said George, surprised. "Now, look here, you told me that little girl was your wife's sister. You don't mean to say she's—she's no relation?"

Busby made no reply, and George began to chuckle audibly.

"You sly dog!" he laughed. "Well, you are a sly dog! Fancy you trotting out a nice little girl like that! And I'll bet your wife doesn't know it. I'll bet she doesn't—does she?"

Busby frowned and flicked over some papers. "I say, Early, just you clear off; I've got a lot to do this morning," he whispered.

"Oh, get out!" said George. "You know I want to hear all about it. You are a lucky beggar! Did you kiss her? I'll bet you kissed her a few times. So would I. And, fancy, your wife knowing all about it, too!"

"She doesn't!" blurted out Busby, with reckless truthfulness.

"Not know it?" cried George. "Well, you are a devil! Come on, old chap, tell us the yarn. I suppose you took her out for the evening—eh? The little minx! And she knows you're a married man."

"She doesn't!" cried Busby, with another burst of frankness.

"Great Scott!" said George. "Did she——"

"Look here, Early," began Busby, growing red in the face; "didn't I tell you I was busy?"

George Early gave another audible chuckle, and went back to his stool, after pinching Busby's arm as a token of his appreciation of such devilry. Before settling himself, he looked over towards the desk of the head clerk; but that estimable man was evidently not in a mood for conversation.

"I'll touch his tender spot later on," said George to himself. "They are all taking it very seriously; and so would I if I had the chance. £500 a year for keeping sober! Good Heavens! It makes me mad to think of it."

Work was out of the question with George that morning, his head was full of legacies. "I wonder if Old Joe would spring another five hundred if he found a good case," he mused. "There'd be no harm in trying him, anyway."

There seemed to be something in this idea, so George endeavoured to fix upon a sound serviceable vice likely to arouse the interest of the head of the firm. "I might become a chronic borrower," he thought; "that's a pretty bad habit. A man who borrows money is always a nuisance to his friends and acquaintances. But whether it's worth five hundred or not is another question. There are several objections, I'm afraid. I dare say Old Joe would prefer to have a borrower here to help Polly reform; besides he'd know that as soon as people stop lending the habit ceases. That's no good."

George wrote down all the vices he could think of without being able to find one strong enough. There were plenty of second and third-rate failings, but not one that might be called of the first water. "It's just like those selfish brutes," he said bitterly, "to monopolize the only decent bad habits there are! I shouldn't wonder if the artful hounds got wind of it a long time ago, and went about drinking and telling lies under Old Joe's nose just to get the money. Men like those are capable of anything."

In this unenviable state of mind George Early went out to a bread-shop, and gloomily watched all the lunchers in the hope of discovering some objectionable practice that he had missed. The only habit that seemed to be noticeable was flirtation, and as George was doubtful of its viciousness he finished his coffee and strolled towards Billingsgate. Here the first really healthy suggestion came to him. He got it by treading on the toe of a market porter, who cursed him with a volubility that only time and a natural leaning that way could have made perfect. Instead of replying with some graceful oaths of his own, George felt inclined to invite his unknown friend to a drink.

"Swearing's a habit," said George chuckling, "and a damn bad habit too. Yes, by St. Christopher, that ought to do for Old Joe! There's something rich about a vice like that, and if it doesn't hit him in the eye straight away he's not the benevolent old man I take him to be."

Somebody ran into George as he entered the office, and Mr. Early promptly rattled out a string of oaths, just by way of practice.

The language that afternoon was such as Fairbrothers' had never known since the firm started. George swore at the office-boys and his fellow-clerks for no apparent reason; and whenever he had occasion to make a remark naturally inoffensive, he seasoned it with unparliamentary expressions. He deftly mixed his obscenity with a good humour that was unmistakable, so that no person could say his language was anything but a vicious habit.

"This suits me down to the ground," thought George; "I should never have believed I could pick up anything so quickly; it's easier than learning French."

When George Early started on a thing he didn't do it by halves. In the present case he made such rapid progress that he was firmly convinced the following morning would see him proficient.

He remembered with pleasure that it was the morning on which Joseph Fairbrother was to show some fair Sunday School teachers over the building. Nothing could be better. On their arrival he would drop some tame expletives sufficient to arouse the attention of the lady visitors; on their departure he would try something a little stronger. Some of them would be sure to point out his depravity to the principal, and as soon as that charitable gentleman began to keep his ears open George felt sure he could give him all the language he wanted.

That night the ambitious clerk wallowed in an atmosphere of profanity. He cursed the 'bus conductor and the 'bus driver, and the passengers, according to their size and fighting weight. He swore at every one who pushed against him, and a good many who didn't. He cursed dogs and telegraph-boys, and even lamp-posts. Once he nearly said something rude to a policeman, and only just pulled up in time to save himself.

His landlady objected to swearing, so George got through the evening meal quickly, and sallied forth to the saloon of a neighbouring inn. There he meant to go into training in earnest, and he hoped also to pick up a few choice expressions that would make a pleasant variation in the day's vocabulary.

He made a bad start by swearing at the landlord, who threatened to put him outside; but luckily a sailor came in and backed him up, and swore at the landlord himself in four different languages. After this George got along like a house on fire.

His education advanced so rapidly that the next morning it was as much as he could do to speak without being offensive. He carefully laid his plans for the day as he rode to the City; he determined to put in a good morning's work about the office so that everybody might know swearing was his special vice, in case Old Joe made early inquiries; then he would spread the report that all his family used bad language, so that people might talk about it.

"Bit of luck I went to Billingsgate yesterday," he thought, as he jumped off the bus. "When I come into the five hundred I'll go down and find the chap who did me a good turn and give him a day out."

He sauntered into the office three-quarters of an hour late, and began to whistle a ribald tune as he took off his coat.

Somebody called out to him in a stage whisper. George took no notice, but swore at his hat when it dropped off the hook.

"Early," said the voice again. "Early!"

"Well, what the devil do you want?" said George, in a loud voice.

"S—sh!" cried the voice again, and George looked round to see a group of solemn-looking faces.

"Hallo!" he cried, looking from one to another, "what's the trouble?"

"S—sh!" cried Busby, lifting his hand. "Mr. Fairbrother's dead."

"What?" cried George, aghast. "Well, I'm hanged!" he said, looking round at the group. "If that isn't just my luck!"

For the second time, George Early was unable to tackle his morning work. He could only sit gloomily at his desk and use up the language he had learned overnight in reviling Fate for treating him so scandalously.

Then he began to go over the events of the interviews again, and soon his countenance cleared so considerably that he was able to discuss the lamentable decease of the firm's head without a pang. Not only did his spirits rise, but they became positively hilarious towards midday; so much so that he shocked all those—and they were many—who felt gravity to be the order of the moment.

"Where's Polly?" asked George, as the lunch-hour approached. He was directed to the head clerk's private office, and into this he went at once, closing the door behind him. Parrott was busy with a sheaf of correspondence, and he looked up to see George Early standing easily a few yards away.

"Got a few minutes to spare?" asked George, coming forward, and leaning on the desk.

The head clerk frowned; he resented familiarity.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Oh, it's just a small matter," said George; "I want to borrow half a crown."

Parrott dropped the letters he was holding, and looked up in amazement.

"What?" he said faintly.

"Half a crown," said George; "I want to borrow one."

Parrott looked at George, and George looked at Parrott. Then Parrott put his hand slowly in his pocket, pulled out some coins, and put a half-crown on the edge of the desk.

George whipped it up, and put it in his pocket.

"Thanks, old chap," he said, and went out of the office whistling, while the head clerk sat staring at the half-open door like a man in a trance.

Chapter III—George Early proves that Knowledge is Power

The firm of Fairbrother went on in the usual way after the loss of its head. There was some speculation as to who would succeed old Joseph Fairbrother, and a good deal of surprise when it turned out to be a daughter, a pleasant young lady of twenty-two or so, who arrived from Australia just before the funeral. If the old gentleman had timed his own death he could not have summoned his daughter with more precision. That the young lady was not steeped in grief at the loss of her parent must be put down to the fact, as confided to the head clerk, that she had lived in Australia the greater part of her life, and had scarcely known her father. More of her family history it is not necessary to tell here, except that, together with an aunt, she took up her residence at Brunswick Terrace, her father's comfortable West End residence.

Miss Ellen Fairbrother assumed command, and occupied the big office-chair much more frequently than "Old Joe" had done. There were no alterations in the staff, and no new rules. Miss Fairbrother was as quiet and inoffensive as her father, and seemed sensible of the fact that she could not improve on his work. She therefore allowed things to go as they had been going.

Parrott and the other important members of the firm consulted the new chief, and jogged along in the same way as before.

Nobody was different, except George Early. He alone had changed with the change of management. To be sure, three others had changed, but not in the same way. He was an ambitious young man, was George, and it seemed as though he had seen in this new state of affairs an opportunity for the advancement of no less a person than himself. That a casual observer might have assumed; a keen observer would have noticed that this change began at the moment when he left the private office with Parrott's half-crown in his pocket.

What the staff generally began to notice was that George had a great deal more confidence now than he had in the days of "Old Joe." He was less familiar with his fellow-clerks, and more chummy with his superiors. He never said "sir" to the head clerk, and the head clerk never found fault with anything he did. But as the clerks had a pretty easy time themselves, they did little more than merely notice these changes. Among those who were disturbed by George Early's tactics and who understood them better was Thomas Parrott.

For the first time in his life he had lent a man money without questioning his bona fides. The legacy compelled him to do it, and he did it. But no sooner had George got out of the office than the head clerk began to think over things, and to wonder if his nature would be able to stand the strain that it might be subjected to.

With the arrival of Miss Fairbrother, he withdrew to the small private office on the ground floor, and ventured out of it only when he was compelled. George made a note of this move, and on the whole quite approved of it; as things were about to shape themselves he could not have wished for anything better.

He walked in one morning, and closed the door carefully behind him. Parrott looked up with some uneasiness, but made no remark. He waited for his subordinate to speak; but as George Early seemed in no hurry to forego his inspection of the almanacks on the wall, he asked if Miss Fairbrother had arrived.

"Not yet," said George, without turning his head. "She doesn't hurry herself. No more would I if I had her job."

Parrott coughed sternly in reply to this free remark concerning the head of the firm.

"Do you want to see me, Early?" he asked, with an attempt at discipline.

"Oh yes," said George, as if obliged for the reminder; "I was just going to thank you for that half-crown I borrowed. By the way, I'm a bit short this week; have you got five shillings you could let me have a couple of days? Beastly nuisance being short."

Parrott turned white, and nerved himself to bear the shock.

"What do you mean, Early, by coming here to borrow money from me?" he said.

George put his hand over his mouth and coughed.

"Because I know you're the right sort," he said diplomatically. "I know you've got a heart, and you wouldn't refuse a man who is hard up."

"It'll get round the office," said Parrott, "and I shall have everybody borrowing from me."

"Why should they?" asked George, innocently.

"Of course not," said Parrott, seeing the need for caution. "Well, I'll let you have the money this time, Early. You needn't tell anybody else; because if others started to borrow money from me, I should have to refuse everybody. Do you see?"

"I see," said George.

He pocketed the money and went out, leaving the head clerk in a very disturbed state of mind.

In spite of his impecunious state, George Early did not seek his usual coffee-shop for lunch that day. He passed it by on the other side, and stopped to look at the bill of fare outside a City restaurant. Having examined the menus of other restaurants, he entered one where a man in uniform stood at the door.

Turning into an alcove, George came face to face with Gray, who was preparing to begin on a prime rump-steak. Gray started, and seemed anything but pleased to see George.

"Didn't know you came here," said George—"thought you went to the Plume of Feathers."

"I've given it up," said Gray.

"Best thing," said George. "It isn't nice to be seen going into a public-house, is it?"

Gray nearly choked himself with a piece of steak, and looked at his companion out of the corner of his eye.

"Smell of whisky here," said George, suddenly, eyeing Gray's glass. "They told me you'd signed the pledge."

Gray reddened, and affected not to notice.

"Better not go near the missis," said Early, referring to Miss Fairbrother. "Awful stuff to smell, whisky."

Gray was on the point of retorting, but changed his mind, and said—

"What are you going to have?"

"Nothing, thanks," said George, stiffly. "Don't come any of that with me, please."

"What are you talking about?" said Gray, beginning to bluster.

"All right," said George, darkly; "that'll do. What I know, I know."

"What's the mystery?" asked Gray. "You'd better get it off your chest, if it's anything important."

"It is important," said George, with a frown. "And what I would do is to advise a certain party to be careful. I don't want to do any spying, but duty's duty."

Gray changed colour, and proceeded with his steak; while George buried himself in the columns of the Daily Telegraph, and preserved a countenance of Spartan-like severity.

Having finished his meal, George coolly took out a notebook and proceeded to make a few entries. He could see that Gray was watching him narrowly, and he purposely endeavoured to put more secrecy into the performance.

When it came to settling up, George had some difficulty in finding the cash, although it was only in his right-hand pocket.

"Funny thing," he said; "I had a half-sovereign a little while ago."

The waiter stood by stolidly with the bill on a salver.

"Would you care to take this?" said Gray, meekly, pushing forward a half-sovereign from among his change. "I dare say you'll find it presently."

"Thanks," said George. "I'll settle up with that, and give it to you as we go along. I shall find it," he said in a determined voice.

He didn't find it. But Gray said it didn't matter; he could pay him back any time.

During the afternoon George Early was in excellent spirits, and when he left the office in the evening his usual fare of tea and toast was supplanted by a sumptuous meal at a foreign café, after which he avoided his usual haunts at Walworth, and travelled to the suburban retreat of Clapham. Here he sought out a quiet, respectable square, and stationed himself in the shadow of a doorway, opposite a corner house with railings. He remained patiently for a quarter of an hour, when the door of the corner house opened, and a man that might be easily recognized as Busby came out. Without hesitation Busby walked slowly across the square, turned down one street, up another, and across another, George Early following. Eventually Busby entered the Free Library, stayed a few minutes, came out, and walked off briskly in another direction.

George smiled to himself as he found Busby's destination to be a well-lighted billiard saloon. Having seen him safely inside, he turned away and retraced his steps to the corner house in the square. This time he passed through the front garden, and rang the bell. A diminutive maid answered him, to be superseded by Mrs. Busby.

George Early inquired politely for her husband. He was not in, Mrs. Busby said. George knew that, but didn't say so. He simply said that he was one of Fairbrother's men, who happened to be in the district, looking for a house that was near the Free Library, and he thought his old friend might be able to give him some assistance.

"How funny!" cried Mrs. Busby. "Why, he's only just gone round to the Free Library himself. He spends all his evenings there, he's so fond of books! He will be sorry he missed you!"

"I'm sure he will," said George.

"What a pity you did not come a little earlier!" said Mrs. Busby.

"I would if I'd known."

"You see," said the little woman, "Albert is so studious. He'll sit for hours and hours in the library, reading all sorts of books, and he can tell the most wonderful stories. I don't suppose you'd believe them if you heard."

"I don't suppose I should," said George.

"Nobody does," said Mrs. Busby, with pride. "They hear his stories, and they smile, but they don't know where they came from."

"It's a good job they don't," thought George.

Mrs. Busby gave her visitor elaborate directions for finding the library, and hoped he would come back to supper. George said he would be delighted, if it was only to hear some of her husband's stories.

Halfway across the square he turned round to take another look at the house. "Nice little woman that," he said to himself. "I think I'll go back to supper." He lit a cigarette, and started off to find his old friend Busby.

The cashier was in the midst of a game of billiards and winning easily, consequently he was in high spirits. He welcomed George, and wondered whatever had brought him to that district.

"House-hunting," said George. "I've just been round to the Free Library, looking up particulars."

At the mention of the Free Library, Busby became more serious, and the next shot he made was a bad one.

"You're getting on well," said George, looking at the score.

"So I ought," said Busby; "it isn't often I win. These beggars are too good for me."

"You'll win this time," said George; "that'll be good news for the missis."

Busby lighted his pipe to avoid a reply, and then made another bad shot.

"You've brought me bad luck," he growled, turning to George.

"It isn't that," said George, "you played in the wrong way. I was looking just now at the book on billiards in the Free Library, and——"

"Damn the Free Library," said Busby, savagely, making a miss.

Busby played badly for the rest of the game, and withdrew sulkily into a corner. George sat by his side, and endeavoured to cheer him up.

"What's wrong, old chap?" he asked. "You don't mean to say Mrs. B. will be disappointed because you lost?"

Busby gave him a pitying glance, and uttered these amazing words—

"She won't know anything about it."

George looked at him incredulously. "You don't mean to say you'll tell her you won?"

"Shan't tell her anything," said Busby. "She thinks I'm in the Free Library."

He was rewarded with a severe look from George, who said, in a serious tone—

"It isn't right, old chap; no man ought to deceive his wife. Tell the truth and shame the devil. That's my motto."

"Keep your motto," said Busby, rudely. "I don't want it. I bet you'd do the same if you were married."

"I wouldn't," said George, decidedly. "No, not for—not for £500 I wouldn't."

Busby was just raising a glass to his lips, but his hand began to shake so that he had to put it down. He mopped his brow, pulled out his watch, and thought it was about time he was getting home.

"Let's see, you're going the station way, I suppose?" he said when they got outside.

"I'm going your way," said George. "I'm coming home to supper, old man, to hear some of your stories."

"What?" roared Busby.

"Those you find in the books at the Free Library," said George. "I shall enjoy them, I'll be bound."

"Look here," said Busby, assuming a threatening attitude, "that's enough of it."

"No, it isn't, old chap," said George. "I promised the missis I'd come back with you from the Free Library, so, of course, I must. Besides," he added gravely, "I shall have to tell her you were not there."

Busby laughed hilariously. "You are a funny devil!" he said. "Well, good night."

He turned away, and George followed him closely. They went on in this way for twenty yards, when Busby turned, and said in low, fierce tones.

"You're following me. Now, I give you warning, Early. I've had enough of your nonsense lately. Take my tip and clear off while you're safe. You'll get none of our supper."

George folded his arms, and assumed a theatrical posture.

"Albert Busby," he said firmly, "it can't be done. I don't want your supper. I'm coming with you, Albert Busby, to see that—you—tell—the—truth."

Busby collapsed, and had to support himself against a lamp-post.

"What do you mean?" he asked faintly.

"I know all," said George, in sepulchral tones.

"All? All what?"

"You know what. I'm obeying the will of a dead man. Did you ever hear of Old Joe Fairbrother?"

That was enough for Busby. He turned away his head and gave vent to a groan.

"You don't mean to say he put you on my track?" gasped Busby.

George waved his hand. "The secrets of the dead must be kept," he said. "Ask me no more."

The next hundred yards were traversed in silence. They passed the Free Library just as the doors were closing, and turned off towards the square where stood the corner house with railings. Suddenly Busby stopped in the middle of the pavement and put one hand on the arm of his friend.

"Early," he said, "you're not going to give me away, are you?"

George drew himself up. "The commands of a dead man——" he began.

"Stop that bosh," said Busby, irritably. "I don't want Fanny to know all about this; what are you going to tell her,—that's the question?"

"It isn't," said George; "the question is, what are you going to tell her?"

"She doesn't know all the facts of this business," said Busby, addressing a lamp-post on the other side of the road.

"She soon will," said George.

"She doesn't know it's five hundred," said the unhappy man; "she thinks it's fifty."

"Don't worry," said George; "I'll tell her everything."

"She thinks," he mumbled with a foolish laugh, "that Old Joe left me fifty pounds a year to improve my education, because I'm so studious!"

George laughed now. "I wonder what she'll say," he cried, "when I tell her the truth!"

Busby seized his wrist with dramatic savagery. "She must never know!" he hissed.

"Let go my wrist, you silly fool!" cried George; "you're pinching me. And don't breathe in my ear."

"She must never know," repeated Busby, folding his arms; "it would break up the home, and part us for ever. She couldn't bear to think I'd deceived her, and I dare say she'd waste away and break her heart. I should, too; and you'd be responsible for two deaths. Promise me, Early, that you'll keep your mouth shut, at least for to-night."

George covered his eyes with one hand and endeavoured to brace himself up for the effort.

"I'll try," he said nobly; "but I may break down in the morning; I can't be sure of myself."

"That won't matter," said Busby, "you won't be here then."

"I'm afraid I shall," said George; "you see, I unfortunately came out without any money to take me home, so I shall have to ask you to put me up for the night."

Busby viewed this prospect with cold disapproval, and after some discussion prevailed upon George Early to accept the loan of a half-sovereign to take a cab home. Having arrived at this satisfactory stage they entered the little front gate of the Busby cottage, George having insisted on keeping his appointment at supper.

Two hours later he left, accompanied to the front gate by his friend, whose hand he shook repeatedly, finally waving him farewell across the square.

"What a nice man!" cried Mrs. Busby; "and how fond he is of you, Albert!"

Albert's answer was not distinguishable.

Chapter IV—Three Worms that turned

George Early came down to breakfast next morning half an hour after his usual time, blithely humming a tune. Mrs. Haskins had it on the tip of her tongue to say something caustic, but refrained.

"Quarter past eight," said George, looking at the watchmaker's over the way.

"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Haskins. "I've done all I could to get you up in time. I'm only flesh and blood; I can't keep the time back."

"Tea hot?" said George, cheerfully ignoring this outburst.

"It was half an hour ago. It's been standing on the 'ob—boiled and stewed and the Lord knows what else. Just what I always do say——"

"Well, don't say it again," said George; "make some more. What's this—a kipper? Don't care for kippers this morning. Let's have some ham and eggs, and send Carrie out for the Morning Post."

"That's all, Mrs. Haskins," as the landlady hesitated. "Oh, stop a minute! I'll have a rabbit for dinner at seven sharp."

Mrs. Haskins stood by the door with the tea cosy in her hand and amazement on her face.

"Shall I write it down?" said George. "Ham and eggs, Morning Post, rabbit."

He sat down in the armchair and put one foot on the mantelpiece, while Mrs. Haskins groped her way out of the room and slipped down the first flight of stairs.

"Parrott good, Gray good, Busby good. Yes," said George to himself with a smile of satisfaction; "it's the luckiest thing I've struck for many a day. This is going to be a picnic. They hadn't a word to say—not a word. Of course not. What could they say?" he asked a china dog on the mantelshelf. "Nothing."

He got up and looked out of the window. The jeweller's shop opposite looked a paltry, second-rate establishment. Hansoms crawling by the end of the street were merely things that you held up a finger to. What was a fur overcoat like that man had on over the way? "Fifteen hundred pounds a year!" said George in delicious contemplation. "Fifteen hundred golden sovereigns, and a dip in the lucky bag for yours truly. All prizes and no blanks!"

The Morning Post arrived.

"Hallo!" said George, "already? I suppose the breakfast'll come up in course of time."

Carrie sniffed.

"You needn't put on airs," she said loftily. "I suppose you think you're everybody because you're going to have rabbit for dinner."

"Look here," said George, with affected hauteur; "you mustn't speak to me like that: I never take impudence from maid-servants. If you're not careful I shall speak to your mistress, and then you won't get a character when you leave. Take your feet off the carpet."

Carrie giggled.

"What is it?" she asked; "five shillings rise, or some money left you? I'm particular to know, because I always like to treat people according to their position."

It was just a quarter past nine when George reached the office. Business was in full swing, and an air of concern appeared on the faces of several junior clerks as George Early hung up his hat. To be a quarter of an hour late was a crime many were guilty of, but to saunter in at nine-fifteen was tempting Fate.

"Missed your train?" asked Matthews, a sympathetic youth with freckles.

"Train?" said George; "don't be silly. My coachman overslept himself. Is she here?"

"Rather; got a new hat. Looks spiffing."

"I didn't ask about her hat," said George. "Where's Polly?"

"Upstairs in her office."

"Go and tell him I'm here, and ask if there's any telegrams for me."

Matthews was tickled at this display of humour, and told George that he'd got a nerve. He informed him that Busby and Gray had both arrived late; that Busby was in a beastly temper, but that Gray was in the best of spirits.

George smiled at the news concerning Busby. "It's that studying at the library," he said to himself facetiously. "No man can expect to keep his spirits up if he goes slogging away studying books, after putting in a full day at business. He wants recreation, a game of billiards, for instance. But that's the worst of these conscientious Johnnies; they get fifty pounds a year left them for study, and study they will, even if it means an early tomb."

Somebody went by, humming—

"For I am too diddley um tum tum,

And I am too diddley ay!"

"Hallo!" said George. "Who's going to be 'Queen o' the May' to-day?"

"That's Gray," whispered Matthews; "see him skip up the step?"

George turned in time to catch the graceful back-kick of a tweed leg as somebody disappeared through the door.

"Seems to have an elastic step this morning."

"It's the Leytonstone air," said Matthews; "you get it like that off Wanstead Flats."

"P'raps so," said George; "I don't think he got that off Wanstead Flats. I think I know where he got it."

"Where?"

"You get on with your work, and don't be inquisitive."

Gray's exuberance had calmed down towards the middle of the day, and when he started out in search of lunch his face wore a more thoughtful expression. The elasticity of his step was not at all noticeable, if it existed. It is doubtful if one in twenty of the people he met would have guessed that he had recently come into five hundred pounds a year, or even fivepence.

In Queen Victoria Street he stopped on the kerbstone, and looked about him. Hungry clerks and typists flitted by in quest of milk and buns. Gray chinked his money and crossed the road. Before turning up a narrow side street he stopped again, and looked round. Then he carefully walked on.

On his left, three doors up, was a tea-shop. Gray looked in, and passed on. A couple of warehouses and a restaurant came next, and a narrow alley beyond. Gray turned into this alley, and followed its tortuous length for some distance until it emptied itself and Gray into a sort of paved square, where the noise of traffic was reduced to a steady hum. There was one noticeable house in the square, a dull-looking building with a projecting lamp. People passed in and out. It was a public-house.

Instead of hurrying by with averted gaze, Gray stopped and glanced sideways at the bill of fare in a brass frame. He really hadn't the least curiosity to know what joints were on, and what entrées off, he was just asking himself a question which he couldn't answer. Another man had stopped to read the bill on the other door-post, and as he did so, Gray looked up. It was George Early.

For reasons best known to himself, Gray was angry.

"What the devil do you want?" he asked, addressing George.

"Want?" said George, surprised; "I'm looking at the bill."

"What do you want?" shouted Gray, fiercely, moving a step nearer.

"I want to be measured for a suit of clothes," said George, innocently. "This is a tailor's, isn't it?"

"This is a public-house," said Gray, in a low, murderous tone, "and you—you're following me."

A whisky bill stared George full in the face, and his pleasant expression gave way to a look of concern.

"A public-house?" he said, stepping back. "Why, so it is. What's this, Gray? You don't mean to tell me you——"

"I tell you this," said Gray in a fierce whisper, thrusting his face close to George's; "if I catch you following me about——"

"Stop!" said the other, in commanding tones; "this is no laughing matter. You have said enough, Gray, and I have seen you with my own eyes." He pulled out a note-book.

Gray laughed ironically.

"Damn your note-books," he said. "I don't know what you're after, but I know that it'll take more than a silly cuckoo like you to upset me."

"Be careful," said George; "you know what lawyers are when they like to be nasty."

Gray thrust himself forward offensively. "I suppose you think you know something," he said, looking at the other man's eyebrows from a distance of two inches.

George Early's face expanded in a smile, "I do," he said.

"Oh?"

"Yes. But," said George, "I'm the only one in the firm who knows. Exclusive information, as they say."

"I see," said Gray, who had been deliberating. "Well, look here"—he tapped George Early on the chest with one forefinger to emphasize each word—"I know something also, so that's two of us. You're a clever bantam, you are, but you'll have to get up a bit earlier to get over me. You just keep your eyes open, and see which of us gets tired first."

With that he marched off. George followed.

A tea-shop loomed up in the distance, and Gray entered and seated himself at a table. George went in and took a seat opposite.

For the rest of the day Gray made himself offensive, frequently requesting George to keep an eye on him, and to have his note-book handy. He went out of his way to offer some points in detective work, particularly on the subject of tracking, and advised the purchase of a little book entitled "Nightingale Nick, the Boy Detective." This was not the worst. George observed Gray in close consultation with Busby, and afterwards with Parrott, both of whom adopted an attitude most aggressive.

"They're in league against me," thought the blackmailer.

This proved to be somewhere near the truth, for on endeavouring to negotiate a loan of five shillings from the head clerk that worthy smilingly replied that he would have been pleased to lend it if he had happened to have it, but the sum of tenpence was all he possessed. He wouldn't think of refusing it, he would only ask George to wait till he got it out of the savings bank. He offered eightpence, keeping twopence for his fare home.

"That's the game, is it?" thought George.

Busby wouldn't speak at all. He replied to all questions by nods and other facial expressions. He shrugged his shoulders in a most expressive way when asked about the new books in the Free Library, and merely laughed when the subject of billiards was mentioned.

"After all, a man can't lie in a laugh," said George. "He can't lie if he doesn't speak. He's done me, and that's straight. Wait a minute"—brightening up—"I'd forgotten the missis. I've got him there safe enough."

"Old man," he said to Busby later in the day, "I'd forgotten to mention it, but the missis asked me to run over to supper again to-night. You can tell her to expect me at nine."

Busby found his tongue. "Well, fancy that!" he said, smiling and apologetic. "I'm sorry, old chap, she must have forgotten it."

"Why?" asked George.

"She went off to her mother's this morning for a month. What a nuisance! I'm awfully sorry! But, I say, Early, you can come down just the same, old chap. We'll have supper together, and run over to the Free Library for an hour afterwards."

"Thanks," said George. "I will."

"That's right," said Busby, "do."

George didn't go, he went home to his rabbit dinner and abused his landlady in a most outrageous manner.

"In all my days," said Mrs. Haskins to her gouty aunt, "I've never been talked to like that. Bless my soul! if you ask me about it, I say let 'im get the Morning Post and take a flat in Kensington, and them as laughs last laughs most!"

George Early got to the office next morning at his proper time, surprising the staff as much as by his lateness the day before. His conduct throughout the day was most exemplary, and he bore the sneers of Busby and the taunts of Gray with meekness and resignation. Parrott found fault with his work, and went to the verge of bullying him. George obeyed his instructions, and knuckled under in a most abject manner, going so far as to call the head clerk "sir," and ask for a day off to bury his uncle.

"A day off!" said Gray, chuckling to himself; "I think he needs it. I like a man to come playing the old soldier with me, and think he's going to get off best."

Busby was highly gratified at the turn affairs had taken. He had had to pay his wife's fare to her mother's, certainly, and give her a ten-pound note; but, taking into consideration Early's previous victory, things looked very promising.

Parrott said nothing, but as he saw George go meekly out of the office he smiled, which meant a very great deal, for Parrott only smiled on the most rare occasions.

Chapter V—A New Lodger in Leytonstone

On the next day, as Gray left the office for Liverpool Street Station en route for Leytonstone, he ran into a man carrying a black bag.

"Hang you!" said the man. "Look where you're going."

"Your fault," retorted Gray, "stupid!"

"Who's that?" The man stopped. "Is that Jimmy Gray?"

"Why, it's Lambert," said Gray. "How are you, old man?"

They shook hands cordially, and slapped each other in the familiar old pal style.

"Why, what are you doing down this way?" said Gray.

"Jimmy," said the other eagerly, "you're the very chap I've been looking for. I wouldn't have missed you for anything."

"Funds low?" asked Gray.

"It isn't that," said Lambert.

He opened the black bag and drew forth a notebook that bulged with cards and bits of paper. One of the cards he placed in the hands of Gray.

"Society of Old Friends," read Gray. "A new social club for business men; secretary, Charles Lambert, Esq."

"Guinea a year," said Lambert, "and the membership complete all but one. Exceptional chance, Jimmy. Spacious club-rooms, billiards, and all the rest. Open as soon as members' list complete. My boy, it's a chance you ought not to miss."

"I know," said Gray; "they always are."

"Don't take my word," said Lambert. "Come and look for yourself. I'm off there now. Just by the G.P.O.—come along."

An hour later Gray resumed his walk to Liverpool Street, a member of the Society of Old Friends.

"That settles one thing," he said, as he got into the Leytonstone train. "Emily is sure to swallow this, and it'll give me a bit more time off."

Gray, like Busby, had not been quite honest with his wife on the subject of the Fairbrother legacy. As a matter of fact, at this moment she knew nothing whatever about it, and had not the faintest idea that her husband was one penny richer by the death of the head of the firm. Gray had intended that she should benefit, but, like many another cautious husband, he feared that sudden wealth might turn her brain. He would break it to her gently, at the rate of a pound a week at first. Having got thus far, he looked about for the best way of presenting the legacy. No opening had presented itself until to-night, but he believed that he had at last solved the problem.

Mrs. Gray was on the doorstep when her husband arrived at the Leytonstone villa.

"How late you are, James!"

James replied by kissing her affectionately, much to her surprise.

"Couldn't help it, Em. One of the men away from the office, and Jimmy had to stay.

"'Jimmy had to stay, my dear!

Jimmy had to stay!'"

he sang.

He was in a most amiable mood, a fact that would not have passed the notice of his wife if she hadn't happened to be in an amiable mood also. They sat down to a meat tea, and Gray attacked a steak vigorously.

"Jim," said Mrs. Gray, dimpling, and sipping a cup of tea, "what do you think?"

Gray arrested the progress of a piece of steak to his mouth, and said, "What?" keeping his mouth open, apparently to take in the answer with the meat.

"Guess," said Mrs. Gray, stirring the tea-leaves in the bottom of her cup.

"Can't," said Gray. "Anything the matter?"

"No, you old stupid," said his wife, placing her cup firmly down in the saucer; "only that I have some good news, Jim."

"For me, dear?"

"Good news for both of us, Jim," said Mrs. Gray.

Gray smiled. "So have I, Emily. I've some good news for both of us also."

Mrs. Gray opened her eyes wide, and then pouted.

"Oh, you know all about it. You are a nasty thing."

"I don't know," said Gray. "I only know what I have to tell you, and that isn't what you have to tell me."

Sunshine again on Mrs. Gray's face. "Tell me your news, Jim," she said eagerly.

"Tell me yours first," said the sly Jim.

"No, Jim; do tell me yours."

"Well," said Gray, "I've had a glorious piece of luck. It hasn't come just at once; but I've been saving it up till I was sure that there was no mistake. There's a new club starting, dear, and I've got the secretaryship—worth about sixty pounds a year. Think of that—another pound a week income! Isn't it grand?"

"Splendid, Jim!" breathed Mrs. Gray.

"Of course," said Gray, hurriedly, "there'll be a lot of work, and I shall often have to stay there late in the evening. But I don't mind that, so long as—so long as you have a little more money for yourself."

"Thank you, Jim dear; but I do hope you won't overwork yourself. But, I say, Jim, wait till I tell you my news; perhaps you won't need to work so hard, then. I've let the front room at last, Jim, and splendid terms—a pound a week, breakfast and meat tea, full board Sundays. Isn't that good?"

"Bravo!" cried Gray. "Why, I'm dashed if you haven't done as well as I have!"

"It's all settled," cried Mrs. Gray. "I only let it this morning, and the boxes came in this afternoon. Look!" She displayed two half-crowns in a plump little hand. "Deposit."

"You're a champion," said her husband. "We shall be so rich we sha'n't know what to do with the money. When does the old lady come in? Is she a widow?"

"Don't be stupid, Jim!"

Jim smiled. "Well, you know, dear, I thought——"

Mrs. Gray suddenly placed a hand over his mouth.

"That'll do, you wicked deceiver. Do you think you can play such games with me? As if I didn't know that you'd had a hand in it. You don't want me to thank you, you bad old Jimmy, but I shall."

"But, my dear——"

"Now, do be quiet," said Mrs. Gray. "I know all about it, so there! You were thinking how much I wanted a little extra money, and what a silly I was not to be able to let the room myself, and that's why you did it, now isn't it?"

Gray smiled, and tried to look as cunning as a monkey.

"I'm so glad," went on Mrs. Gray. "It will be such a help; especially as he's a nice man. I should hate to have a grumpy lodger."

"I hope he hasn't got a beard," said Gray. "I know you like beards, but I might get jealous."

"Don't be horrid, Jim; you know he hasn't got a beard."

"Perhaps his hair's red," continued the relentless Jim. "Now I come to think of it, you are rather partial to red hair."

"You know it isn't," said Mrs. Gray, with a pout. "You are a tease, Jim."

"How do I know," said Jim, innocently, "when I've never seen the man? He may be a Chinaman for all I know."

Mrs. Gray ignored this remark, and began to clear the tea.

"I like his name," she said presently.

"Glad of that," said her husband. "What is it—Piper or Snooks?"

"If your name wasn't Jim, Jim, I think I should like it to be George. George is the next best name to Jim."

"Oh, his name's George?"

"You know it is. And, Jim, supposing you two men——"

Mrs. Gray suddenly stopped talking, for her husband had risen from his chair with a terrible frown on his face. Before she could speak he caught her in a grip of iron.

"Why, Jim, whatever——"

"His name," he said, in a terrible whisper—"tell me his other name."

"Don't, Jim; you are silly——"

"Quick!" said Gray. "Name! name!"

Mrs. Gray gasped. "I don't—Jim——"

"Is it Early," said Jim; "George Early?"

"Of course. You must be crazy, going on like that!"

Gray released his hold and stared blankly at the carpet. Then he gave vent to his feelings in an outburst of invectives, which, being unintelligible to his wife, put that lady into a high state of indignation. What might have been a scene was dispelled by the rattle of a key in the front lock. Mrs. Gray swept out of the room, and a minute later her husband and George Early had the sitting-room to themselves.

"Good evening," said George, sweetly.

"Good evening," said Gray.

There was silence for a while, during which time Gray rammed a pipe with Old Judge. George selected a comfortable armchair, and lit a cigarette.

"So you've been burying your uncle," said Gray, with a sneer. "I hope you buried him deep."

"Pretty deep, thanks," said George.

Gray planted his back to the fireplace, and looked sideways at his enemy.

"I hope it's a big grave," he said, "in case there's another death in the family."

"There won't be another death," said George; "we're pretty hardy."

"You're a clever devil," said Gray, in a tone that belied his words. "If all the family are as clever as you, they'll be in Parliament soon—or jail. I suppose you think you've got the best of me; but you'll find that two can play at this game."

"That's what I thought," said George. "It was because I couldn't get along without you that I came down here."

Gray accepted the situation for the time being with sullen resignation, and Mrs. Gray, entering the room timidly and finding the new lodger in good spirits, brightened up and forgot her husband's outburst. In half an hour George knew all the local news and scandal, and was on the best terms with Mrs. Gray, if not with her husband.

"Do you know," said Mrs. Gray, "at first I had a horrid thought that you and Jim were not friends. Wasn't it silly of me?"

"Absurd," said George. "We're like brothers."

"Ah," said Mrs. Gray, "but there's one thing you don't know. Jim only heard it for certain to-day."

"That's nothing," said Gray, suddenly; "he knows all about that."

"Oh, you mean——" said George, looking at his landlord.

"Where are my slippers?" bawled Gray, irritably, suddenly groping about the fireplace. "They're never here when——"

"I'll get them, Jimmy!" Mrs. Gray skipped away to the kitchen.

"Not a word, mind," said Gray, in a fierce whisper to George. "I won't have that business discussed here. I'm secretary to the 'Old Friends' Society,' at sixty pounds a year. That's good enough for you."

"It's good enough for you, I suppose you mean," said George.

"Well, remember—not a word."

"I'm not sure that I should be doing right——"

"You fool, do you want to ruin me? I haven't told her yet, and I can't let her hear it from you."

"Why not?" asked George.

"You ass!" said Gray, excitedly. "I can't explain here. I don't want her to know."

"Quick!" said George, as Mrs. Gray's footsteps sounded in the passage; "shake hands, and I'll keep your secret."

The pair grasped hands dramatically.

"Yes," said Mrs. Gray; "it's a splendid thing for Jim, isn't it?"

"Splendid thing for the club," said George. "They know what they're about; you can take my word for it. Where could they find a man, I should like to know, with the ability, the splendid gifts, and the remarkable knowledge of your husband? He's a man," said George, fixing a keen eye on the paper Gray was reading, "he's a man in a thousand. An orator, a politician, a scientist, a man of the world. His intellect——"

"That'll do," snapped Gray.

"No," said George, "I won't stop. Why should I? The position is a big one; but you are as good as the position."

"That's what I say," said Mrs. Gray, who approved of all George said.

"They're getting a man," went on George, "who will fill an honourable position with honour. The right man, too. For secretary you must have a man who is punctual, a teetotaler, and——"

"Oh, but Jim isn't——"

"Don't interrupt, Emily," said Gray, irritably; "you know what he means."

"But he said——"

"Oh, don't argue! What's the time? I want to run out for half an hour. I suppose you'll come as far as the corner—er—George?"

"Jimmy, old friend," said George, with an affectionate glance, "you know I will."

The next morning George and his landlord travelled to town together. Gray didn't take at all kindly to the new arrangement, but gave vent to his feelings in sudden outbursts of profanity.

"I suppose I'm going to have you hanging to me like a leech as long as I've got a penny in my pocket," he said bitterly.

George looked hurt. "It's your company I want, Jimmy," he said meekly. "A bachelor wants a cheerful pal. You ought to know that, you've been a bachelor yourself."

"You'll have to clear out," said Gray, darkly. "I won't have you in my house, I tell you straight."

There was an absence of sprightliness in Gray's manner at the office that day. He sat in gloomy solitude at his desk, nursing his wrath. All efforts on the part of Busby to draw him into conversation were useless. George, on the contrary, was in good spirits, so cheerful, in fact, that Parrott and Busby began to feel a little uncomfortable.

"He's up to some mischief," thought the head clerk. "I shall have to keep my eye on him." His fears were confirmed a little later on in the afternoon. The freckled Matthews entered his office and asked permission for one of the carmen to speak with him.

"Who is it?" asked Parrott.

"Old Josh. Wants to see you particularly."

Old Josh was ushered in—a little tubby, weather-beaten old man with a squeaky voice. He entered at once into a recital of family woes, in which his son-in-law, who was out of work, figured prominently. Before his daughter married the family had been comfortably off—always had a good dinner on Sundays, never knew what it was to want a shilling; week in and week out there was the money; and there were they all happy and comfortable. His son-in-law had had bad luck, and that bad luck meant help from the old people, and the worry of it had made the missis ill; and, what with one thing and another, the family funds had fallen low, there was rent in arrears, and things had come to a crisis.

"Well," said Parrott, "I'll see what I can do, but of course, you know, you're getting the highest limit of wages the firm allows. Perhaps I may be able to make it another shilling. I'll see what I can do, Benson."

Benson murmured his thanks, and proceeded to launch forth into a fresh budget of troubles.

"Very well," said Parrott, nervously. "I'll let you know as soon as I've seen Miss Fairbrother."

Old Josh twirled his cap for a moment and then said—

"The fact of it is, sir, you see, it ain't so much the shilling a week, which is welcome, though small. It's the present needs, as you may say, that knocks us over."

"I see," said Parrott, plunging into the perusal of a pile of papers. "Well, I'll be sure to let you know."

Old Josh then made an effort and blurted out: "A party told me, sir, as how the present needs might be put right by a certain sum o' money down, which I may say would be a fi' pun note. I make bold, sir, to ask you for the loan of that sum, which will be a God-send and a generous action."

Parrott turned pale and stared. "What's that you say?"

"A matter of five pounds, sir," said old Josh. "If my son-in-law had done as I told him, it wouldn't have been for me, sir——"

"Never mind your son-in-law, I'm very busy just now," said Parrott.

"Then I suppose it's no good my——"

Parrott waved his hand. "You'd better come—come and see me later. I can't talk now."

Old Josh went off highly gratified, with many apologies for the disturbance. The next person to enter was George Early, summoned by special messenger.

"Early," said the head clerk, "your work has been very unsatisfactory lately, and although you've been warned several times it doesn't seem to improve. You set a bad example to the others, and I feel it my duty to bring this matter to a close. You are a smart young fellow, but you don't quite suit the firm. I dare say you will be valuable to somebody else, so I set you at liberty a week from now."

"Thanks," said George; "then it's no good asking for a rise in salary?"

"You are dismissed," said Parrott.

"How did Old Josh get on?" asked George, complacently.

"I have nothing further to say," said the head clerk, firmly. "You may go back to your work."

"Thanks again," said George; "but I have something further to say. I may be valuable to another firm, but I prefer to remain here. That's because I'm a smart fellow, as you say. I don't want to be hard on you, but I can't have any nonsense like this, so I may as well say so at once. The bad example I set to others I have had under consideration, and I find that my abilities are wasted in the ordinary clerking. I've therefore decided to talk over with you the matter of taking a higher position, where I shan't have to sit with ordinary clerks and corrupt 'em. I needn't explain to you that it will be to your advantage to help me up, because a man with your foresight will see that at once. Just you think it over, and we'll have a little confab in a day or two."

He went out of the office and closed the door softly.

At the week-end George heard that Miss Fairbrother was thinking of taking a secretary, and had cast a favourable eye upon himself, assisted in the operation by the head clerk.

Chapter VI—Lamb Chops and Tomato Sauce

Thomas Parrott was treating himself to half an hour's serious meditation, selecting for his purpose the big armchair in Mrs. Carey's sitting-room. It was only on Wednesdays that the sitting-room was deserted, because then the two other lodgers were detained at business, and Parrott was free to have his dinner in solitude. With Mrs. Carey's permission, he took his dinner on Wednesdays in the company of Miss Lucy Perkins, the future Mrs. Parrott.

It was nearly seven now, and Miss Perkins was due in half an hour. The head clerk had intended to take advantage of the comfortable legacy left him by setting up an establishment of his own. It had been his intention to fix the wedding day the week before, and thus bring to a close his forty years of bachelorhood; but he had put it off; under the circumstances he was uncertain how to act.

The cause of the disquiet was the pecuniary demands of George Early, who had developed a habit of borrowing that had become alarming. The first half-crown had lengthened into five shillings, which in turn became ten; the previous day had seen a rise to a sovereign. Parrott had remonstrated, but remonstrance was lost upon the imperturbable George, who remarked that it was only out of kindness he had been persuaded to cut the sum so low. He said that he hoped the small loan would not be refused, as it would give him pain to have to report the matter to the lawyers, who evidently wanted rousing up. He then pointed out to Parrott that he was really doing him a service, by helping him to break his beastly habit of meanness.

"I could get him the sack," thought the head clerk. "That would be one way to get rid of him."

He strangled the idea a moment afterwards. George Early out of work would be an even greater danger. He thought out various plans of bribery, intimidation, kidnapping, and even garrotting, but none of these suggested a possible solution. In the midst of his meditations the front-door bell rang.

"That's Lucy," said the head clerk, rising and smoothing down his hair before the glass. "I mustn't say anything to-night. It'll have to be postponed till I can be sure the money is my own."

He brushed a speck off his well-preserved dress-suit and flicked over his shoes. Then he stirred the fire and went to meet his fiancée.

As he opened the door a well-known voice caught his ear. It was not Lucy's; it was a man's voice. He knew it well; it was George Early's voice.

"Damn him!" said Parrott, savagely. "What the deuce does he want now? I'll wring his neck if he tries to borrow more money already!"

George was speaking most affably to Mrs. Carey.

"I'll just tell Mr. Parrott that you're here," said the fussy old lady.

"Thank you," said George; "and I'll come with you. It's most fortunate that he's at home. I know he wouldn't like to have missed me."

The head clerk looked around him frantically. There was no escape; he was caught like a rat in a trap. He felt that he would sooner have brained the relentless George than lend him a single sixpence. He rushed to the window; it was too high to jump from, and already George was on the landing. A sudden idea struck him, and he picked up his patent boots and dived into the great clothes-cupboard that opened into the sitting-room.

Mrs. Carey knocked and entered, followed by George.

"A gentleman to see——"

The landlady stopped and looked round.

"Not here?" said George.

"Well, now," said Mrs. Carey, "bless my soul, I could have bet a penny-piece I heard the poker rattle five minutes ago!"

"I heard a rattling noise," said George.

In the minute or two that Mrs. Carey occupied in ascending a further flight of stairs to the bedroom Parrott debated whether he should spring out and throttle his enemy or await events. At any rate, George must go when he found the man he wanted was not at home. He decided to stay awhile in the cupboard.

Mrs. Carey returned from a fruitless search. She thought her lodger must have run out to post a letter.

"I'll wait a bit," said George.

He placed his silk hat carefully on the side table, and took a seat in the armchair vacated by the head clerk. Parrott fumed as he took note of George Early's dress through a crack of the door. His patent boots were new, and he wore an expensive tie; sprays of flowers worked in silk adorned his waistcoat; his gloves were a fashionable grey, and on the little finger of his left hand a ring glittered.

These articles of dress were not lost upon Mrs. Carey, who took advantage of George's affability to stand a moment and comment on the weather. Their pleasant chat was interrupted by another ring at the front-door bell.

"Hang it!" muttered the wretched Parrott. "That's Lucy, and I can't get out of this beastly hole!"

Instead of Mrs. Carey descending to show up the young lady, she allowed Susan, the maid-of-all-work, to do that service, and explained to Miss Perkins the reason of her presence with the gentleman visitor.

Miss Perkins thought it funny that Mr. Parrott should not be there to meet her, and by the toss of her head George guessed that she was not a little piqued. Mrs. Carey left them together till the return of the absent fiancé.

Miss Perkins was a milliner by trade, but not in trade at present. Fortune had smiled upon her mamma a year previously to the tune of two thousand pounds, and with this comfortable sum Mrs. Perkins lived in a villa at Paddington until such time as Thomas Parrott should rob her of her child. Both mother and daughter considered the match a desirable one, though they would have liked to know with more certainty the extent of the head clerk's fortune.

"Do you find it very warm here?" said George, making himself agreeable. "Let me open the window just a little."

"It might be cooler," said Miss Perkins, dabbing her face with a handkerchief.

"That's the worst of these old houses," said the young man, magnificently; "they're so pokey. The rooms are like rabbit hutches."

"Give me Kensington for a decent house," said Miss Perkins, trying to look as though she lived there.

"Or Bayswater," said George.

"I couldn't bear to live in a part like this," said Miss Perkins. "I always did 'ate 'Ammersmith."

From unhealthy houses they drifted into more personal topics, and George told Miss Perkins that he was a member of the firm of Fairbrothers. They discussed the ornaments and the furniture, examined the pictures, and laughed together at the family likenesses. And to all appearances they didn't seem to mind much if Parrott came back or not.

Then, for decency's sake, George said, "He's a long time posting that letter," to which Miss Perkins agreed without appearing to be much disturbed.

And while they were both chattering and laughing Mrs. Carey came up and vowed upon her life that the lamb chops would be ruined. There was tomato sauce too, and a pudding, specially prepared to the order of the head clerk. It was a shame to have it spoilt, Mrs. Carey said, and both Miss Perkins and George Early agreed.

Unfortunately, Thomas Parrott had left lying on the side table an invitation to dinner that he had declined the day before. George pounced upon it and read it out.

"That's where he's gone," said Miss Perkins, viciously.

"It's a shame," cried Mrs. Carey.

"I'm surprised," said George, "that any man should so far forget himself as to leave a lady in this awkward position. If it wasn't that I'm a stranger here I should feel inclined to ask Mrs. Carey to allow me to do the honour of——"

He hesitated and looked at Miss Perkins, who began to toy with a salt-spoon.

"Of course," said Mrs. Carey, accepting the situation graciously, though a little uneasily. "If Mr. Parrott wouldn't mind, I'm sure I—— It does seem a pity to have the dinner wasted."

"It would be a sin," said George.

He looked at his watch and began to brush his hat, and perform those little preparations that preface departure, maintaining in the mean time an indifference likely to settle quickly the doubts of Mrs. Carey.

"I'll bring it up," said the landlady, suddenly opening the door. "Don't go till you've had a bit of dinner, sir. I'll explain it to Mr. Parrott."

Mrs. Carey bustled downstairs, and George and Miss Perkins prepared themselves for a pleasant evening.

The dinner was an immense success. The only thing that saved it from disaster was the horror that Parrott had of bringing ridicule upon himself. But for this the irate prisoner would have burst the door of his prison-house and brought confusion on the diners.

George filled Miss Perkins' glass and his own to the brim. He had discovered a full bottle of claret in the cupboard, and brought it out in honour of the lady. Together they emptied the bottle, and enjoyed it; the lamb chops disappeared, and Mrs. Carey's puddings followed them, and throughout the evening they seasoned each course with a natural good humour.

George was in the best of spirits. He praised the cooking, compared the sparkling wine to Miss Perkins' eyes, and attacked the food with a relish that only comes to a man when he is feasting at another man's expense.

"You may smoke," said Miss Perkins, graciously, settling herself in an armchair.

George did so, borrowing for the time one of the head clerk's cigars, with the permission of that gentleman's fiancée.

The sight of his beloved on one side of the fire and his enemy on the other was too much for Parrott. Already his cramped position had exhausted him, he began to scheme for some means of escape.

George now shifted his position, so as to put his back to the light, at the same time putting his back to the cupboard. If only Lucy would do the same, he might slip out and down the stairs, the cupboard being near the door.

The next moment she did so, and, quick as lightning, Parrott opened the door noiselessly, and put one foot out. Unfortunately for him, George was standing before the looking-glass, and this movement caught his eye. In the excitement of the moment he dropped the china dog he was examining, which so startled Miss Perkins that Parrott was forced to draw back for fear of being observed.

George gathered up the pieces, and began to laugh. The idea of Parrott being in the cupboard while the lamb chops were being eaten was too good to be passed over lightly, it gave a new zest to the entertainment.

"What are you laughing at?" asked Miss Perkins, still suffering from the shock.

George laughed louder. "I was thinking," he said, "how your fiancé will laugh when he comes home and asks for the lamb chops for supper, and finds they're eaten."

This tickled Miss Perkins immensely, and she and George laughed again in unison.

"Serve him right," said Miss Perkins.

"What does it matter?" said George, throwing away his cigar, and taking a fresh one.

"What does what matter?" asked Miss Perkins.

"About the chops, when he's got you."

To this embarrassing question Miss Perkins vouchsafed no reply, merely adopting an air of superiority, and tapping the toes of her shoes together.

"If I were in his position," said George, loud enough for the man in the cupboard to hear, "I'd get married to-morrow."

Miss Perkins blushed, and laughed. "You wouldn't be so silly," she said.

"Anyhow, I'd marry you at once," said George, "just to make sure"—slowly—"that I didn't lose you."

Miss Perkins, who was now in an excellent temper, changed the conversation by wondering what time Mr. Parrott would return.

"He'd be back sharp enough if he knew you were here," said George.

"With you," added Miss Perkins, with pretty wit.

This made them both laugh.

"I wonder what he'd think if he'd been hidden away here all the time," said George, audaciously.

Miss Perkins turned pale, and looked round the room.

"It's all right," said George; "it's only my fun."

The little milliner tossed her head. "I shouldn't care," she said defiantly.

"I don't believe you would," said George, with admiring eyes. "But I know what you would say. You'd just say this."

He leaned forward, and whispered.

Miss Perkins shrieked with laughter, and George's loud guffaw shook the ornaments. It was as much as Parrott could do to keep his feelings under control. Even now he had notions of dashing from his hiding-place. Early would go too far one of these times; he was doing this purposely.

"I say," said George, suddenly, "when is the wedding coming off? I suppose you've got the house all ready."

"Not quite," said Miss Perkins, with some reticence.

"Oh," said George, "I thought it would be all right, seeing that his luck at the office had changed."

Miss Perkins pricked up her ears.

"You know all about that, of course," said George, warming up to the subject, and watching the door of the cupboard out of the tail of his eye.

"No," said Miss Perkins astonished, "what was that?"

"Why, you see," said George, "it was this way."

He paused to relight his cigar, and carefully noted the brawny fist that came slowly out of the cupboard and shook in his direction.

"When Old Fairbrother died——" began George.

The cupboard door creaked. Miss Perkins heard it, but was too excited to take any notice.

George began again. "When Old Fairbrother died, he left——"

An audible rustling now came from the cupboard.

"What's that?" said Miss Perkins. "I heard something."

"So did I," said George. "Whatever can it be?"

"Perhaps it's a cat," ventured Miss Perkins.

"Sounded just like a cat to me," said George.

Miss Perkins lifted up a corner of the tablecloth, and knelt on the floor to peer under the table. George lifted up another corner, and knelt beside her. Together they looked underneath, and all that Parrott heard were muffled voices and a little giggle from his fiancée.

When they both rose, very red in the face, Miss Perkins cried "oh!" and it was then seen that George's watch chain had become entangled in the lace of her sleeve. When Miss Perkins tried to undo it her head came very near to George Early's, and Parrott gnashed his teeth. Only the thoughts of absolute disgrace kept him in his narrow cell.

"What a good thing he isn't here to see this!" breathed George.

"It was your fault," said Miss Perkins, stifling a laugh; "your——"

"Listen," said George. "I heard it again."

They listened, but there was no sound.

"Perhaps it's under the table, after all," said the young man artfully. "I only looked in one corner."

The brawny fist again appeared from the cupboard door.

"I think I'll go now," said Miss Perkins, apparently aware at last that a flirtation was in progress, and that the landlady had ears.

"If there is anybody concealed here," said George, lifting up a corner of the tablecloth again, "I pity him when Mr. Parrott comes in. If there's one thing that he can't bear, it's deception of any sort. Goodness knows what he'd do to anybody who deceived him! I believe he'd kill him."

Miss Perkins put on her hat in silence, and with some haste. If her lover came in, matters might be awkward.

"You are going to Paddington, I think," said George; "we'd better have a cab."

"No, thank you," said the little milliner, doubtful how to act; "I'm not quite sure if Thomas would like it."

"Ah," said George, with a catch in his voice, "you don't know him as well as I do. It's the very thing he'd suggest. We're just like brothers, the two of us; we lend each other money, wear each other's clothes, go to each other's houses, and do everything we can for each other. If he wanted my girl, I——"

"What!" said Miss Perkins, sharply.

"If he wanted anything—anything——" said George.

"You said a girl," said Miss Perkins.

"Ah, I only said 'if'!" replied George, "But you may be sure that if he were here now, he'd say, 'George, my old friend, take Lucy home in a cab. You're my comrade, and I'd trust you anywhere.'"

Miss Perkins said no more, but led the way downstairs, and as George followed, he heard the door of the cupboard creak, and knew that the prisoner was at last free.

An hour later he returned, and inquired for the head clerk again.

"I don't think he's in yet," said the landlady; "I haven't heard him."

"I think you'll find he's in," said George.

Mrs. Carey found the head clerk in, much to her astonishment, and ushered George up, after having hastily explained the lamb-chop incident.

"Hallo, old man!" said George, closing the door carefully, and choosing an armchair. "Hard luck for you being shut up there, wasn't it?"

Parrott rose slowly, and deliberately took off his coat.

"Now," he said, facing his junior, "what have you got to say about it?"

George Early lit a cigarette, threw the match away, and then looked up.

"What I have got to say," he said slowly, leaning forward, and looking the head clerk in the eyes, "is that if you don't put on that coat at once and sit down, I'll—I'll borrow ten pounds!"

"What!" said Parrott, in a hoarse whisper.

"I mean it," said George.

Chapter VII—An Erring Husband improves against his Will

George Early certainly showed some shrewdness when he took up his position as secretary to Miss Fairbrother, for his address and appearance underwent a process of swift renovation. He brushed his hair very nicely, shaved every morning, and attuned his voice to the ear that was to receive its melody during business hours.

Miss Fairbrother approved of George; he was neither uncouth nor dense like a good many other men who are clerks. He knew just when to be formal, and when his business features might relax into a smile. Nothing embarrassed him. He took over the little problems of the big office and smoothed them out comfortably—not by himself, but by the help of other men downstairs. When something puzzled Miss Fairbrother, as most business affairs did, George immediately cleared the air by affirming that Gray or Busby or Parrott could explain it, and to Gray or Busby or Parrott George went. Letters, orders, bills, complaints, came up daily to the desk of the fair employer, laying the foundation of many a thin line on the white brow; letter, order, bill, and complaint were picked up and laid down by turns, jumbled, mixed, and sighed over. Then the little bell would tinkle, and from his office adjoining in would come George, bright-eyed, confident, and submissive. Could he understand to what this letter referred? Miss Fairbrother didn't remember the matter. This complaint about stoves. Who was responsible for the delay, and was it usual to allow discount in this other case, as the customer asserted?

George didn't know; but if you think that George was fool enough ever to admit it, you have quite mistaken his character. George would attend to all these matters, and see that everything was put right. He did so too, and took upon himself a good deal of authority downstairs, which was his peculiar way.

"A man might rise to a good position here," he said to himself, flicking a speck off his fancy waistcoat. "There is nothing going downstairs; it's up here where the salary is, and the good jobs and all the rest of it. Besides, feminine society is much more in my line. Women are so much more easy to manage—in business. Who knows, some day I may be giving a rise to others: you never—— Come in!"

"Gentleman to see Miss Fairbrother."

A large man of the country builder type tramped in.

"You want," said George, with the air of one about to confer a favour, "to see Miss Fairbrother?"

"That's it, m'lad. Shall I go in?"

"If you will be so kind as to sit down," said George, with affability, "I will find out if the lady can see you. Our busiest time this; four people inside now."

"I know, I know, my lad. I have been dealing here this thirty year."

"Really?" said George.

"Yes," said the builder. "I knew your missis when she was a little 'un, two year old. They tell me she's grown a fine lass."

"She has," said George. He went inside.

Miss Fairbrother was engaged in the unbusinesslike occupation of looking over a pile of draper's patterns.

"A gentleman to see me? Joseph Brown,—I don't know the name. What does he want?"

"Wants to gossip and give a small order, I should say," said George.

"I suppose you may send him in," said Miss Fairbrother, abstractedly, feasting her eyes upon a square figured watered silk. "Is he a nice man?"

"Harmless," said George; "but probably a talker. He's been dealing here thirty years. Old acquaintance, he says."

"Oh!" said Miss Fairbrother, looking up, "what else did he say?"

The ghost of a smile lit up George's face.

"Said he knew you when you were—so high." He gave a guess at the height of a two-year-old girl.

Against her will, Miss Fairbrother's face flushed. She looked doubtfully at the door, then at the patterns, and said—

"Please say I'm very busy. Perhaps you can settle the matter yourself; I really am busy, you know," and she pulled a fresh box of patterns from under the desk, and spread them out before her.

After some trouble George convinced Joseph Brown that the four customers inside would occupy Miss Fairbrother's attention for at least two hours, and advised him to call again.

Miss Fairbrother spent the rest of the day in poring over the pages of fashion-books, leaving George to wrestle with the problems of the firm in the shape of business correspondence.

"Lucky thing she's got a good business staff," mused George. "The old man knew what he was doing when he tied those three beggars to the firm with five hundred pounds each. Not but what he might have found better men—myself, for instance. However, I mustn't grumble."

George did not grumble; on the contrary, his good humour was inexhaustible, and his temper as even as a man's temper could be, considering that he held a position of responsibility. He worked now much more than he had ever worked before; but it may safely be assumed that he was not doing it for the fun of the thing; that there was money in it, or that he did it with a purpose; in other words, that he knew what he was about.

So far as the legatees were concerned, Miss Fairbrother's secretary did not see fit to relax his vigilance. Perhaps he felt that the apathy of "Old Joe's" lawyers made it necessary in the interests of justice that a private person should take up the case, or perhaps he found it useful to have the men under his thumb; whatever his reasons were it is certain that his eyes were as watchful as ever, and equally certain that his victims strongly disapproved of his attention.

"It's my duty," he said to Gray, when that gentleman brutally asked how long he intended to intrude upon his home comforts.

"Hang your duty!" said Gray; "we don't want you."

"I'm a good lodger," said George; "ask your wife if I don't give complete satisfaction. She hasn't grumbled, that I'm aware of. You know you've always wanted a lodger, and now you've got one you're not satisfied."

Gray was certainly a long way from being satisfied. Since the advent of George Early his home had become as sanctimonious as an A.B.C. shop. He was obliged to conduct himself according to the creed of the new lodger, who held over his head the grim sword of exposure. He came home early when George willed it, and attended to his duties as secretary of the Old Friends' Society when George saw fit to grant him an evening off.

Mrs. Gray was just as pleasant with the new lodger as her husband was annoyed with him. Gray had had a partiality for Scotch whisky that had at times left much in his character to be desired as a husband. His wife confided this much to George, who promised to lead the erring husband from his wicked ways. He was as good as his word, and in due course the whisky bottle disappeared. Other bad habits of Gray's also were toned down considerably, and James Gray's wife was not slow to show her appreciation by holding up George Early as a model young man, and an excellent lodger.

"My time will come," said Gray, savagely, to George; "and when it does I shan't forget you."

"I hope not," said George, "I've been more than a brother to you."

Elated by the growing fortunes of the family, and the reformation of her husband, Mrs. Gray proceeded to lay out the extra cash that flowed into the family coffers in new strips of oil-cloth and art muslin. In her pursuit of these useful articles she kept a watchful eye on the local drapers' sales, and joined the mad rush that followed the opening doors on the first day. Fancy curtains of weird colours greeted the eyes of her husband in all parts of the house, and odd forgotten corners sprang into new life under a mantle of carpet remnants.

George Early's bedroom was not neglected, and, in order to show her gratitude for the good he had done, Mrs. Gray determined to surprise him by gracing that virtuous apartment with a brand new bookshelf, on which the dozen odd volumes of his leisure might repose with dignity.

With this object in view, she started out one morning to Stratford, hugging a catalogue wherein it was stated that among other things "bookshelves of artistic design" were to be "absolutely thrown away."

In due course Mrs. Gray reached the scene of battle, and joined the great throng of combatants all eager for the fray. It was a mighty crowd, but Mrs. Gray, who knew something of Stratford and its inhabitants, was convinced that the five-shilling mantles, skirts, and blouses would engage their attention before books and bookshelves. Her reckoning, wise as it may seem, was somewhat out; as she discovered when, hot and panting, she reached the bookshelf counter. They had sold like hot cakes. One solitary bookshelf, abashed at its loneliness, and still bearing the glaring red sale ticket, reposed on the long counter.

"Bookshelves," gasped Mrs. Gray to the nearest assistant.

"Here you are, ma'am, the last one."

"Oh! Haven't you any others?"

The crowd surged, and it was only by an effort that little Mrs. Gray got back to the counter.

"Bookshelves," she gasped again to the perspiring draper.

"Last one, better have it while you can," said the man.

"Oh, well, I——"

"How much is this bookshelf?" said a voice.

Mrs. Gray's hand grasped it convulsively. "This is sold," she cried; "I've bought it."

"I beg pardon, ma'am, I didn't hear you say——"

"I spoke first," said the other lady, laying a hand on the bookshelf; "you've no right——"

"Excuse me——"

"It's no use talking, I——"

"But I was here first, before you ever——"

"Take the money, please, one and——"

"Do nothing of the sort. I've already bought——"

"Now ladies, ladies, ladies!" cried the assistant.

"But you know——" began Mrs. Gray indignantly to the man.

"How ridiculous! You heard me say I'd have it. Why——"

"You didn't!"

"I did."

"But I was here long——"

"Mind your heads!" screamed a porter, forcing his way through.

"Here you are!" cried the assistant; "here's another one, so you'll both be satisfied."

Mrs. Gray surged out triumphantly with her bookcase, her rival following with the duplicate. Together they stood on the kerbstone waiting for the Leytonstone tram.

Mrs. Gray was a good-tempered little body, and now that she had got what she wanted she was pleased to be gracious; so when she caught her rival's eye a smile crept about her lips, which brought forth an answering smile, showing that the temper of each was but short, and that no malice was borne.

They got on the same tram, and Mrs. Gray at once held out the olive branch.

"I hope you didn't think me very rude," she said; "but I did so want this for a very special purpose, that I could have done anything rather than go without."

"So could I," said the other eagerly; "you must have thought me rude, too, but I was mad to get it."

"Really? Oh, I didn't think you rude. I'm sure I——"

"Oh, but think how I screamed. You were not so rude as——"

"I screamed too. Aren't they nice?"

"Lovely!"

Harmless chatter and apologies filled the journey, and the friendship was strengthened by both getting out at the same point.

"Do come in and have a cup of tea," said Mrs. Gray; "have you time?"

The other had heaps of time. "But I hardly like to after my rudeness," she said.

"You mean my rudeness," said Mrs. Gray, poking the key in the front door.

By the time that the tea was ready each knew a great deal of the family history of the other, and the bookshelves again came under discussion.

"I've so wanted to get a bookshelf," said Mrs. Gray. "You know, I've a lodger who's such a clever man, and so steady, that I thought he would appreciate this more than anything else."

"Really? Well, my husband's very studious; he loves books, and there's nothing he likes so much as a bookshelf, unless it's a book. He doesn't know I'm buying this; it's to be a surprise."

"So is mine."

"He will be glad. You'd never believe how fond he is of books. He spends all his spare hours in the Free Library; that will show you how studious he is. While I'm staying down here with mother, he keeps in our house all alone because it's near the library; while if he came down here he would lose an hour away from his books."

When they finally parted Mrs. Busby extracted a promise from Mrs. Gray to take tea with her on the following day, and Mrs. Gray declared it would give her the greatest pleasure to do so. Fervent kisses and exclamations of surprise at what the respective husbands would think closed the interview.

The respective husbands heard about the meeting in due course; Gray from his wife, and Busby from George Early. On the occasion of his imparting this information George took the opportunity to borrow a few pounds from Busby, which the cashier lent with some reluctance.

On the same day Mrs. Busby received a wire recalling her to Clapham.

Chapter VIII—George Early holds Fortune in his Arms

The constant surveillance of the irrepressible George was beginning to tell upon Gray. The golden dreams inspired by the possession of five hundred pounds a year were slowly fading, and he began to look back with some relish to the days when he could cheerfully call for a whisky-and-soda. What was the use of this wealth without the means of enjoying it? Certainly he might hoard it up for a year or two, then cast off the yoke. But could he live through the trial? Besides, the blackmailer must have his due, which considerably diminished the sum.

Gray firmly believed that George had taken infinite pains to worry him, instead of apportioning his vigilance equally among the three legatees. Why couldn't he go and live with Busby or Parrott? Gray could only suppose that these schemers had outwitted the wily George, and it made him mad to feel that he couldn't do the same. Busby especially irritated Gray, for lately he had put on airs till his manner became overbearing.

"If I could only discover what he's being paid to keep off, I'd make it warm for him," thought Gray, savagely. He pondered over the various drawbacks he had noticed in Busby previous to Old Joe's death, but couldn't call to mind any special vice among them.

"He was always a mean-spirited cuss altogether," he thought. "I suppose he's getting the money to take a Sunday School class and sing hymns."

Gray sounded George on the subject, but met with a cool reception.

"You know my principles," said George. "Do you suppose I'd tell another man's secrets?"

"No, of course not," said Gray. "You wouldn't do anything wrong; you're such a good young man."

George smiled at this subtle flattery.

"I'd like to have a go at that hound," Gray said with emphasis. "He's been putting on airs a bit too much lately, and as you don't seem to be able to keep him under, you might hand over the responsibility to somebody else."

"I might," said George; "but it wouldn't be right. You ought not to ask me such a thing."

"Of course I ought not. I'd give a sovereign to know, all the same."

This tempting offer was lost upon the secretary, who busied himself with his work.

"I believe I'd venture two," said Gray, "just to get a smack at him. What do you say to that?"

"It'd be worth it," said George.

"Well, jot it down," said Gray, "and I'll hand you the cash. You needn't be afraid of my giving the game away to any one else."

"I wonder you can ask me to do such a thing for a paltry two pounds," said George. "Now, if you'd offered five——"

"I'll see you hanged before you get a fiver out of me," said Gray, rudely.

Seeing, however, that George was indifferent as to whether he spoke or not, he presently ventured to offer him three pounds, and finally grudgingly promised five.

The secretary showed no inclination to impart the secret until the money was produced, and even then was loath to speak.

"It's a mean action," he said, fingering the note lovingly. "I'm not sure that I ought to tell."

"You're sure enough of the money, anyway," Gray pointed out.

"I'll do it for you!" said George, pocketing the money suddenly. "You're not a bad sort, Gray. And I know that you won't try to make money out of it, because that would be robbing me of my little bit. Between ourselves, I must say that there's not another man in the building I'd do a good turn to so willingly as you. You're a man, Gray, that a fellow can depend on, and I'll always stick up for you, come what may. I like you because you are honest and——"

"Hang the honesty, and stop that rot!" said Gray. "Tell me what I've paid for."

George held up his hand, then tiptoed to the door of Miss Fairbrother's room. Having satisfied himself that there were no listeners, he drew Gray out on the staircase, closing the door behind them.

When Gray returned to his seat in the lower office it was with the consciousness that he had paid a big price for a very small secret. He looked over at Busby, sitting complacently at his work, and mused on the garrulity of old age that had led Joseph Fairbrother to try to reform such a man.

"There's something solid about my failing," he thought. "Drink has ruined many men, and it's worth all the money I get to keep off it. But to allow five hundred pounds a year to a person like Busby for not swearing gets over me. Why, a man like that would be afraid to swear. It's a waste of money."

So potent is the spirit of vengeance that Gray could not wait for an opportunity, but must needs force his new-found knowledge upon the unsuspecting Busby. Avoiding his lodger at the hour of closing, Gray followed his new enemy homewards. There was a sprightliness in the foot of Busby as he tripped nimbly along on the greasy pavement, and a stubbornness in that of Gray as he followed.

Fortune favoured the man from Leytonstone before the couple had gone the whole length of the street. Busby placed his heel upon some slippery substance, and cleaved at the air with his hands. He regained his balance and uttered a most emphatic "Damn!"

A second later he was looking into the stern, relentless eye of James Gray.

"I was nearly over," said Busby, easily, recognizing his colleague. "Those fools who throw orange-peel on the pavement ought to be prosecuted. Mind you don't step on it."

Gray said nothing, but kept a piercing eye on the face of the cashier.

"Do you want me?" said Busby, "or are you coming my way? Don't stand there looking like that."

Gray took Busby's arm in a vice-like grip. "I heard it," he said, solemnly.

"Heard it?" said Busby.

"I was close behind," said Gray. "You didn't know it, but I was there."

Busby misunderstood. "I wish you'd been in front," he said, "then perhaps you'd have found the orange-peel first. I was as near as a touch going over. When you've quite done with my arm I'll have it for personal use."

"Don't try to fool me," said Gray, sternly, without relaxing his hold. "I know what I heard, and you know what I heard."

Busby's temper now began to get out of hand.

"I don't know what you heard," he said, "but I know that you're making a juggins of yourself. Leave go my arm!"

Gray complied.

"Now, what do you want?" asked Busby, offensively.

Gray lifted one finger dramatically, without appearing to notice the last remark. "I give you warning," he said, in a sepulchral voice. "Beware!"

Busby began to laugh.

"There's something wrong with you, Jimmy; you'd better see a doctor. Come and have a whisky."

"No," shouted Gray. "I refuse to have your whisky."

"Oh, all right," said Busby. "I won't force it on you. You used not to want asking twice; but I've noticed you've been off it a bit lately."

Gray winced visibly under this remark, and proceeded to turn the conversation. He drew nearer to Busby, and whispered hoarsely—

"I've warned you once, but the next time I may tell. Be careful, and remember that Gray is the man who knows."

With this melodramatic exclamation, he turned and disappeared up a side alley with appropriate mystery.

Busby stood looking after him, quite at a loss to understand.

"The man who knows? What the dickens is he talking about?"

Being satisfied that Gray was either drunk or labouring under a delusion, he continued his walk towards Fleet Street.

Gray went home alone that evening, the wounds of the past weeks soothed by this new ointment of retaliation. At the tea-table sat his loving wife, charming as only a woman can be with news on the tip of her tongue.

"Hallo!" said Gray, who saw that something had happened. "You've had some money left you."

Mrs. Gray opened her mouth, perplexed.

"You've found a purse," said her husband, "with three pounds in it, a lock of hair, and some love-letters."

"Jim!"

"You haven't? Then somebody's given you a valuable recipe for the complexion, or is it a new hair-wash?"

"What's the matter with you?"

"I know," said Gray. "You've got another lodger. If that isn't right, I give it up."

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Mrs. Gray; "but it's most ridiculous, whatever it is. I had something to tell you; but if you don't want to listen, why, of course, it doesn't matter."

"It does matter," said Gray. "I've been trying to guess."

This was not quite what Mrs. Gray expected, for who among us likes to be read? News, to be news, must burst like a thunder-clap, especially if it isn't very interesting. Seeing that she had been anticipated, the little woman was not anxious to talk; but, seeing that to hold what she had intended to divulge would have been more worrying than to tell it, she poured out the story of her meeting with Mrs. Busby, the family gossip, and, lastly, the legacy left by Mr. Fairbrother.

"It's a shame!" she cried hotly. "You ought to have got a legacy, too, Jim; you're as good as Mr. Busby, I'm sure! Why shouldn't you get a legacy for studying books?"

"I may get one yet," said the uncomfortable Jim, affecting to pass it over lightly. "These things often take a long time in the lawyers' hands. I dare say I shall get one later on."

Inwardly he was smarting from a fresh wound, which he managed to calm by a great effort. George Early had got the better of him again! He had made a fool of him, and charged five pounds for it. He waited for George to come home.

It so happened that he was doomed to disappointment, for some hours at least. George, with the five pounds chinking in his pocket, had decided to take an evening off, after the cares of a business day in the City, and was at the very moment that Gray awaited him partaking of a comfortable seven-course dinner in no less luxurious a place than the Café Royal. It was evident, too, from the negligent manner in which he ordered a coffee and benedictine, that he had no intention of hurrying home. Gray had therefore ample time in which to think out his plan of argument.

No sign of impending trouble was visible on the face of George as he emerged leisurely from the gaily lighted restaurant, and stood in contemplation for awhile on the pavement, enjoying his Havana. The fingers of his right hand were in his pocket, toying with the ample balance of Gray's fiver, and his train of thought, instead of leading him, as might have been quite natural, to dwell on the ingenuousness of his landlord, turned to the usefulness of money as an aid to the enjoyment of life.

George Early was not so young as to have never thought of this before; but who can help ruminating on the advantages of wealth amid the luxuriousness of Regent Street? On one side a jeweller's, heavy with gems, flashes its wealth insultingly upon passers-by; next door, a furrier calmly displays a two-hundred guinea wrap; lower down, half a dozen shops are surmounted by the royal arms, and only by turning into a side street can one realize the significance of any coin under a sovereign. In Regent Street, every other vehicle bears the stamp of wealth, with its spotless coachmen, and horses better groomed than half the men in the City. Languid young lords stroll by arm in arm, displaying a dazzling amount of shirt-front; elaborately coiffured ladies, fresh from some Park Lane boudoir, trip across the pavement, and dive into gorgeous restaurants. Now and again a son of toil passes, but his poverty is swamped by the surrounding glitter.

George looked on at this everyday scene with a comfortable feeling that for the time being he was one of the élite. He eyed the dress-suits with the air of a connoisseur, and approved of the toilette of every pretty woman that passed. Among his other fancies, George had a keen eye for a good figure and trim ankles, and it must be put down to his good taste in frocks and frills that he narrowly observed one young lady in particular, who stood for quite five minutes on the edge of the kerb without appearing to have made up her mind what to do next.

When a man is attracted by a feminine figure that presents a graceful and pleasing back view, he comes in time to speculate upon the looks of the owner, and, if the back view is accorded long enough, to have a natural desire to see if good looks or the reverse are her portion. This is precisely how George felt; but as the figure continued to stand on the edge of the kerb, he was forced to stroll up the street to satisfy his curiosity. As he did so, the lady made up her mind suddenly, and crossed the road at the same time as two hansom cabs came along in opposite directions. To an observer like George the moment for crossing was obviously ill-timed.

The lady hesitated, went forward, then started back. The drivers yelled, the horses slid, the lady screamed, and George dashed forward—just in time to drag her out of danger.

In less than two minutes a crowd had gathered, and George, much to his own amazement, was handing the lady into a hansom cab, and, what is more, getting in beside her. For the lady was Miss Fairbrother, head of the old-established firm of Fairbrother and Co., and employer of George himself.

It was all so odd and strange and sudden, George couldn't believe it. Even when he assisted her out and up the steps of the Fairbrother mansion; even when he paid the cab-man, and walked away, and found that he was really in Kensington, it didn't seem real. He had a faint remembrance of hearing her say "Thank you, Mr. Early," and of his having explained the occurrence to the butler; but it was all hazy and incomprehensible.

The night was still young when George again set foot in Piccadilly. He had seen fit to walk all the way back, it suited his frame of mind. From dreaming of the odd chance that should throw him into Miss Fairbrother's arms, or her into his, he had come to recalling the plain facts of the adventure, incident by incident, more minutely each time, till he stood still, metaphorically, in the middle of Regent Street, with one arm round the slender waist of his employer.

George was conscious now that it was a very slender waist, although he hadn't been aware of it at the time. He recollected, too, many other details that he had observed imperfectly in the rush of events. Her head had dropped on his shoulder, and one fair hand had clutched convulsively at his coat. He could see the red lips, the soft cheeks, the dimpled chin, the brown hair, close to his own. She wore an elaborate straw-hat creation that had grazed his forehead, the spot glowed even now as he recalled it. But what he chiefly realized now was that delicious sense of pleasure he had had in holding her in his arms for two seconds, a feeling that the exigencies of the moment had strongly necessitated his suppressing. His present leisure calling for no such harsh measure, he was at liberty to halt, in his fancy, and gaze, in his fancy, at the red lips and dimples of Miss Ellen Fairbrother.

In his present mood, and with his present faculty for handling the subject, he could have gone on from Regent Street to Brunswick Terrace, backwards and forwards, for the rest of the evening, halting each time for a considerable period in the middle of Regent Street, with cabs behind and before, and Miss Fairbrother's head on his shoulder. He could have gone on doing this, and have asked for no other amusement, if the bustling activity of Piccadilly had not led his mind away from the subject. The real truth is that George woke up from his dream in a most unpleasant fashion. In plain words, something descended very heavily on George's right foot.

To recount all that George said, and the uncomplimentary remarks he made on the other man's want of grace, together with the personal allusions to his figure, and what he would have done to himself if he had had such feet, would not be fitting in a respectable book like this. Such detail is also quite irrelevant. What has to be recorded is that in one of the intervals of vituperation the other man said suddenly—

"George!"

A look of astonishment appeared on the face of George Early, and in a moment his resentment fled. He said, "Well, I'm hanged!" and laughed. The man he was consigning to other regions was Busby.

Under the circumstances, there was nothing to do but retire to the nearest hostelry, and endeavour, by means of the flowing bowl, to re-establish amicable relations. This was done without demur on the part of either combatant; in fact, the fracture seemed likely to be the means of making a strong friendship out of what had been at best a mere business acquaintance. George toasted "his friend Busby," and paid for the drinks, whereupon Busby toasted "his pal George," and called for more.

At the third round, Busby, feeling that some explanation of his presence in that part was necessary, confided to George that he was on his way to a smoking concert, a confession that prompted George to give some information regarding himself, which he did with due caution, especially that part relating to the five-pound note.

"He's a sly dog, Gray," said Busby; "I'll bet you had a tough job to get a fiver out of him."

George agreed.

"I couldn't be close like that, Early, old chap. You know that what I give I give freely. I don't blame any man for making a bit when he gets the chance. It's nothing to me to tip you a sovereign out of a little windfall like that."

"Of course it isn't," said George, "nor two for that matter."

"No, nor two, you know well enough that I wouldn't make the slightest bother. But Gray, he's that close——"

"Close!" said George; "he worships it. He keeps every farthing."

"I couldn't be mean like that. It's a pity that he hasn't got a few more to tackle him harder than you do."

"So it is," said George.

"He ought to have me!" said Busby. "Why, if I knew—but, of course, it's no business of mine. It would be a spree to get at him. It'd be a picnic to let him see that I knew all about it. He'd have a fit."

The thought of Gray writhing under the knowledge that a second man possessed his secret pleased Busby immensely, and his merriment only subsided on his observing that George was not enjoying the joke.

"Don't you be afraid, old chap," he said. "I wouldn't ask you to tell anything that you didn't want to."

"I know you wouldn't," said George. "You're not that sort."

But the idea having entered into the head of Busby was not easy to get rid of. Perhaps, in spite of his unwillingness to draw secrets from his friend George, he had some idea of doing so when he invited that young gentleman to turn his steps towards the smoking concert, and be passed in as a friend. From what we have seen of George Early, it seems doubtful that he could be easily led into imparting knowledge that was of sterling value to himself, while he kept it to himself; but one can never tell what a man will do for friendship's sake when under the influence of alcoholic liquor.

George Early and Busby went to the concert, and encored the choruses with great gusto. At intervals they had refreshments, and in due course made their way to Charing Cross in a very friendly spirit.

Probably George had imbibed as freely as Busby, but to all appearances the cashier had surrendered himself unreservedly to the strength of what he had taken. In this mood he was inclined to refer to the subject of Gray's legacy, which he did at intervals, and at which times George, with his usual skill, let his own tongue run loose within bounds.

"You're a close dog," said Busby, at length, "nearly as close as Gray himself."

"What!" said George in astonishment. "You wouldn't have me tell——"

"Tell, be hanged!" said Busby. "He deserves it, doesn't he? Isn't he an outsider? Doesn't everybody know he is? Why, I'd tell anything about a man like that. Everybody knows he's a mean——"

"Ssh!" said George, looking behind him. "Don't shout; somebody'll hear you."

"What does it marrer? Let 'em hear. Everybody knows he's mean."

"Ssh!" said George again.

"Ssh! yourself," said Busby, giving him a playful punch. "Let 'em hear, I say. What does it marrer? What does——"

He stopped suddenly, and caught George by the arm. They looked each other steadily in the eye, and then Busby burst into a wild, silly laugh.

"It's no good, Georgie. It's no good, old man. You've done it—you've given him away. You've fairly given him away; now, haven't you? That's the secret—I've got it!"

George walked sullenly on without replying, until Busby persuasively urged him not to take it to heart.

"You're too clever for me," said George.

"Never mind, old man, I won't cut you out if I can help it."

"Look here," said George, putting on his most serious air; "don't you go borrowing all his loose cash just because he's obliged to lend it. That won't be fair, you know. You must give me a chance."

Busby magnanimously promised that George should not be made to suffer more than he could help.

Elated with his success in one direction, he next began to hazard a guess at the prominent vice of Parrott, which resulted in George's imploring him to "draw it mild" for the sake of friendship. But, being started, it was no easy matter to stop a man like Busby. The only course for George Early to take was to dexterously swap the vices of Parrott and Gray, which he did with great success. When Busby hit upon the drink question, George was seized with a trembling fit, and Busby laughed again in triumph.

"I told you you were too clever for me," said George. "All I hope is that you won't over-do it."

Busby hilariously swore at his two absent confreres, and vowed to "tickle them up a bit," just to pay off old scores.

Having embraced his friend, he rolled into a cab, and trundled off to the suburbs.

"He's too clever for me," said George, facetiously, with a smile, as the cab rolled off—"they all are. But I dare say I shall pull through. Now for a small select hotel, and bed."

Instead of seeking the small hotel straight away, he stood for a full five minutes gazing absently across Trafalgar Square. Busby and the smoking concert were entirely forgotten, and George stood again in the middle of Regent Street, with one arm round his employer's waist.

Chapter IX—The Man who laughed Last and Loudest

Gray was not in a good temper when he reached the office next morning. He felt that George Early had added insult to injury by absenting himself after procuring five pounds by the meanest of tricks that man could resort to. His fierce wrath of the night before had settled down into a steady glow of bitter resentment, and at times he felt that only a swift and sudden display of physical force could compensate him for so cruel a deception.

Fuel was added to the glowing fire within every time he recalled his own insane behaviour towards Busby on the previous evening. His temper was not improved by observing that the cashier's eye roved in his direction several times during the morning, and that there sparkled in it a light of insolent familiarity. He had a great mind to show his appreciation of this attention as an office-boy would have done—by placing his thumb to his nose and extending his fingers. Such a course was, however, rendered unnecessary by the cashier coming forward to pass the time of day.

"I thought you were rather interested in me this morning," said Gray. "Perhaps I owe you something."

Busby grinned. "I don't think so, old man," he said. "I wish you did."

"If I did," said Gray, with brutal frankness, "I'd pawn my watch to pay up, sooner than be in your debt."

"Don't take it like that, old man," said Busby, affably.

"Don't 'old man' me," said Gray. "Keep your familiarity for your friends."

"Now you're getting out of temper," said the cashier, who was in a most angelic mood, and inclined to be considerate.

"I don't want to talk to you," said Gray, offensively.

"I'm sorry for that, Gray," said Busby. "I wanted you to do me a favour."

"You'll be doing me a favour," retorted Gray, "by taking yourself out of my sight—the sooner the better."

"I want," said Busby—"I want you to lend me ten bob, Jimmy."

"I'll see you shot first," said Gray.

Busby's reply to this discourteous remark was to fold his arms and assume a dramatic posture.

"You refuse?" he hissed.

It was an exciting moment.

"I don't lend money to people like you," said Gray.

"Gray," said Busby, solemnly, "I have asked you for the loan of ten shillings."

"That's half a sovereign," said Gray.

"Do you refuse to lend it?"

"I wouldn't lend you twopence," was the reply.

In spite of this plain answer, Busby kept his ground, and said in a low, severe voice, "I'll give you one more chance, Gray. Do you refuse?"

Gray now understood the situation, which had not been clear to him before. It relieved him immensely to find that he was not the only victim of the new private secretary. Assuming a proper reluctance to continue the conversation, he said in a milder tone—

"You know this is my busy day, Busby. I'll see you later on."

"Later on won't do for me," said Busby, severely, secretly delighted at the change of affairs. "You've been insolent, and you shall pay the price. I want your answer now."

Gray affected to be seized with fear, and said hoarsely, clutching the desk—

"What do you know?"

Busby was wild with delight. "Everything," he said.

Gray put one hand in his pocket, and said, in a stage whisper, "Ten shillings?"

"Ten shillings," repeated Busby.

Gray took his hand from his pocket and resumed his work.

"Go and hang yourself," he said brutally, dropping the mask. "I'm surprised at a cute chap like you allowing that cuckoo, Early, to bluff you. It's no go, old man, he's had you on a bit of toast."

This sudden change of front convinced Busby at once that Gray was speaking the truth, and a red glow of indignation overspread his features. As soon as he was able, he delivered himself of a scathing denunciation of the unlucky George, accompanied by threats of vengeance.

Misfortune having established more friendly relations between the two, Busby at once confessed to the knowledge of Parrott's drinking habits, at which Gray started, and then laughed contemptuously.

"All bluff," he said.

"It must be stopped," said Busby, fiercely. "We'll be the laughing-stock of the place if it gets about. Besides, it's dangerous."

Gray agreed; and the two entered thereupon into a dark and deadly conspiracy, which had for its initial object the abasement of George Early.

The next step was to secure Parrott's support. This was soon done, and the three conspirators now endeavoured to find some means of putting their adversary hors de combat. It was, however, much easier to discover the necessity than the means for removing such an obstacle.

"He's too artful for us," said Gray. "He's the slyest devil I've ever come across."

"I could get him the sack," said Parrott, severely; "but I don't see that that would do any good."

"More likely harm," put in Gray, quickly. "He'd never pay me any rent, and he'd be sure to blackmail me for pocket-money."

"And come to me," added Busby, "when he wanted money for clothes. My missis thinks he's 'such a nice young man,' too."

"He wouldn't be above trying to get money out of me, either," said Parrott, cautiously.

"Above it? He'd do it with all the pleasure in the world."

"We can't kidnap him and lock him in a dungeon. He's one of those slippery brutes that would wriggle out of it, and be down on us worse than ever."

Nothing short of a swift and sudden death seemed possible to repress the terrible George; but all decided that, with the present unsympathetic attitude of the law towards this means of removing troublesome persons, nothing in that direction could be thought of. Gray suggested a pleasant little scheme for taking George Early on a holiday trip, and getting him to fall over a high cliff, but it didn't sound feasible to his co-conspirators. If he would only tumble down a well, or slip in front of a steam-roller, the problem might comfortably be solved. Any such plan would, of course, need his active co-operation, which it was felt he would be disinclined to give, even to secure the peace of mind of three such good fellows as Parrott, Gray, and Busby.

At this point of the confab, when the frown of perplexity sat equally heavy on the brow of each legatee, the door of Parrott's office opened, and the trio beheld none other than the subject of their thoughts. No protecting angel had been at work warning George of the plot that was being hatched against his person, for his smile was as serene and beautiful as the morning sun that filtered in through the window panes; his manner was as easy and debonnaire as usual.

"Good morning all," he said affably. "Lovely morning, isn't it?"

Nobody answered.

"It's quite a treat," said George, looking about him, "to be alive on a morning like this, and to see all your old friends with smiling faces. Now, if I were asked——"

"What do you want?" asked Parrott, sharply.

"To be sure," said George. "What do I want?" He laughed cheerfully. "What do we all want"—looking around—"but to be comfortable and cheerful? Plenty to eat and drink; money, and the love of our friends. Eh, Busby?"

The cashier gnashed his teeth.

"In this life," began George, sitting on the edge of the table, and stretching forth one hand. "In this life——"

"That's enough," said Parrott. "Remember where you are."

"Infernal cheek!" vociferated Gray, scowling at his lodger.

"I beg your pardon," said George, contritely. "Business is business, of course. I beg your pardon. It was the glorious morning that made me feel like it; and when I came in and saw all my old friends looking so happy—there, I beg your pardon."

"Early," said Parrott, rising, and fixing a cold eye upon the secretary. "I have had to speak several times about your conduct in the firm. I have had to warn you. I shall not warn you again. Leniency is quite lost upon some people, and the only way to bring a man to his senses is to show him what he is—to put him in his place. You have had your opportunities; you have failed to make use of them, and to show proper respect to your superiors. This can go on no longer; there must be a change."

"Quite right," agreed George; "there must be a change."

"I have done what I could for you," said Parrott, with a terrible frown; "but all to no purpose. You have brought this upon yourself, and you must suffer for it. To-day I shall hold a conference with Miss Fairbrother, and settle the matter. You need not ask for mercy, either from myself or from Mr. Gray, or Mr. Busby; we are done with you. Your chances in this firm have been crushed under your own feet."

"I see," said George, coolly. "That reminds me that I have a letter for you from Miss Fairbrother. It was enclosed in one sent to myself." He handed over the note, and settled himself in Parrott's armchair while he re-read his own.

There was a painful silence as Parrott read Miss Fairbrother's letter, which in turn was perused by Gray and Busby.

In view of the recent proceedings, it was somewhat disconcerting. It ran—

"Dear Mr. Parrott,

"I shall not be at the office to-day, probably not all the week, owing to an unfortunate accident last night, the shock of which has upset me. But for the timely assistance of Mr. Early, I should probably not be alive to write this note. You are doubtless aware that Mr. Early has of late shown a thorough knowledge of the affairs of the firm; and I wish you, therefore, to make it known that during my absence he is to take my place. He will consult me on business matters when he considers it necessary.

"Yours faithfully,

"Ellen Fairbrother."

During the perusal of this letter, George pulled forth a huge cigar, carefully nipped the end and lit it. From the depth of his comfortable seat he surveyed with a masterful eye the three men who now stood undecidedly by the table.

"Now, my men," he said presently, directing a glance at Gray and Busby; "you have heard the views of your superior on duty and obedience. I don't want you to crush your chances under your own heels. Get to work, there's good fellows; follow a good example while you have one. I don't want Mr. Parrott to have to hold a conference with me about you."

Busby sidled towards the door with a snigger, and went out with his hand over his mouth. Gray assumed an insolent swagger. Hesitating a moment, he looked down upon George Early with an intention of throwing off a scathing epigram on his exit. Not finding anything to the point, he swore softly, and banged the door. George got up leisurely, and prepared to follow.

"I shall be upstairs, Parrott," he said with a drawl. "Be sure to knock before you come in."

Chapter X—Hero Worship

On arriving in his office upstairs, George seated himself comfortably, and read Miss Fairbrother's note for the sixth or seventh time. He was not one of those men who are prostrated by a sudden change of fortune, but there were materials in this epistle with which even the most unimaginative man might build castles in the air. Taking it word for word, it was at the least most soothing to the heart of George. The note was as follows:—

"Dear Mr. Early,

"How can I thank you for your prompt and brave assistance last evening? You saved my life. I shudder to think of what might have happened to me had you not been there. I am sure I should have been killed. I am too much upset to come to the office to-day. Please come to Brunswick Terrace this afternoon, that I may thank you personally for the great service you did me.

"The enclosed note for Mr. Parrott directs him to consult you on all affairs of the firm while I am away. You must take my place until I am quite well; you know everything about the business, as I am well aware by the valuable assistance you have so often given me.

"Please do not fail to come this afternoon.

"Always yours gratefully,

"Ellen Fairbrother."

George lunched that day at the Carlton, and from there proceeded in a hansom cab to Brunswick Terrace.

Miss Fairbrother had elected to remove her aunt for the time being, so that the interview was quite private.

The ordeal of being thanked by a rich young lady whose life you have saved must be a most embarrassing one to most men; to George it did not prove so. He found himself much more at ease than he had expected to be. The embarrassment was all on Miss Fairbrother's side.

She was not sparing in her praise of what she called "his noble action," but, though her voice had the ring of honesty, and her words were sincere, she found it easier to look at the pictures and the furniture than at George Early. Whenever she caught his eye, the pink glow in her cheeks deepened, and her fingers toyed nervously with the lace on her gown. Any young man with a proper regard for the delicate sensibilities of the fair sex would, on finding a young lady so prettily confused, make a valiant effort to put her at her ease. This George did by assuming a very modest demeanour and concentrating his gaze on the hearthrug. It was effectual, for it gave Miss Fairbrother confidence, and led her to speak of the valuable help George had given to the firm since he had accepted the office of junior clerk, facts which surprised George, and were a testimonial to Miss Fairbrother's skill as an inventor.

"I feel sure," she said impulsively, "that some day you will be a partner in the firm."

"No," said George, modestly; "I shouldn't think so."

"Oh, but I am sure you will! You are so—you know so many things. Doesn't it surprise the others to find how much you know?"

George valiantly suppressed a sudden fit of coughing.

"Now you come to mention it," he said, "I think it does."

"I'm sure it must do," said Miss Fairbrother, warmly. "I think courage and cleverness are things that people cannot help noticing. And unselfishness; think how noble it is to do things for others!"

"Splendid!" said George. "But you can't help it if it's born in you."

"It isn't always that," said Miss Fairbrother. "Some men are very brave. They give their lives up to benefiting their fellow-creatures, and watching over them as if they were helpless little children."

"Yes," said George, turning his imagination to the past; "my old father used to say, 'Never mind yourself, George; others first—others first, m' lad.'"

"I knew it," cried Miss Fairbrother, with a brightening of the eye that George didn't fail to notice. "You've been following that good advice in spite of all obstacles. Oh, if only everybody would fight and overcome difficulties like that!"

"It's been a bit hard," said George, reminiscently.

"But think of the victory," cried Miss Fairbrother, "when you look back on what you have done."

"Ah! If people only knew."

"Yes," a little doubtfully; "but of course you don't exactly want people to know."

"That's just it; they mustn't know a word about it."

"If they did?" she breathed.

"It wouldn't do," said George; "they wouldn't all be so grateful as you."

Miss Fairbrother's fingers grew nervous again, and the point of one tiny little shoe attracted all her attention. George, looking out of the corner of one eye, felt that matters were progressing most satisfactorily.

"I suppose," said Miss Fairbrother, softly, without turning her head, "you've—you've saved other people before?"

George at once became so modest and so concerned about the inside lining of his hat, that Miss Fairbrother looked up, and added quickly—

"You have; I'm sure you have. Do tell me about it! Oh, I should like to know!"

George took out his handkerchief and rubbed his nose very hard, a performance that may have been actuated by emotion or equivocation.

"I don't want to talk about it," he said, with a suspicion of huskiness in his throat.

"Perhaps they were very ungrateful," Miss Fairbrother observed sympathetically.

"That's it," said George; "some people don't deserve to be saved."

"I'm afraid I haven't given you much but my thanks."

"Don't mention it. It's a pleasure to save any one like you. I'd like to do it every day."

Miss Fairbrother suddenly became so interested in something she saw outside the window that only one pink ear was visible to her rescuer.

"When I think of yesterday," continued George, leaning forward and speaking slowly, "I can't understand why I called up that cab so soon and put you in it, and why I didn't stand there holding you."

He paused a moment, but Miss Fairbrother never moved. The pink ear seemed to be growing pinker. George went on daringly—

"That ride home in the cab was a ride I shall always think about. I don't think I took my eyes off you once all the way. How could I, when——"

Here the conversation, which threatened to take an alarming turn, was interrupted by the sudden entrance of a maid with tea.

That interval of a few minutes so destroyed the continuity of George Early's argument that he decided to abandon it. Miss Fairbrother, having satisfied her curiosity through the window pane, immediately on the entrance of the tea affected to forget what he had been talking of, and invited him with an uncommon lightness of spirits to draw nearer to the small tea-table.

Whatever George Early may have thought of the lady's charms on the previous evening, he was now convinced that they were many and various. In the office she was usually bored and a little bewildered, and at times inclined to be cross about business problems. Her speech was frequently plaintive, and her hair out of curl. Here, with all the worries of business left behind, she was demure, pretty, and altogether charming. Her eyes sparkled, and the little frowns that were apt to pucker her fair brow gave place to smiling lines around the mouth. In that big office she looked out of place, a frail and worried little body; in this drawing-room she was in perfect harmony with her surroundings, while George seemed out of place there. He felt out of place too, at first; but being of a nature that easily adapts itself to circumstances, he was soon chattering as pleasantly as if he'd been used to drawing-rooms all his life. It was evident that Miss Fairbrother approved of him, and felt satisfied that her rescuer was a young man of noble ideas and a true hero. She was probably not unaware that he was also a good-looking young man, with well-brushed hair, and a smile that was not without charm. These things she had doubtless overlooked before in the worries of business.

George was not a man to miss opportunities, in spite of the adverse criticism of his fellow-workers in the firm of Fairbrother. Having created a good impression, he knew that the next thing to do was to make it lasting. Afternoon tea and pleasant conversation with a girl you have rescued from an untimely death are not among the unsweetened things of this world, but George saw fit to bring his visit to an early close by evincing an earnest desire to return to Fairbrothers' on business which could not be neglected.

Miss Fairbrother approved of his close application to the firm's affairs, but was not sure that she had thanked him sufficiently for what he had done for her. George assured her that by supplying him with a final cup of tea the debt would be fully paid.

Whereat Miss Fairbrother laughed—a sweet, tinkling, little darling of a laugh.

Whereat George laughed—a polite, hearty, good-humoured laugh.

What more natural than that George's big manly hand should press Miss Fairbrother's little finger in taking that cup of tea, and that Miss Fairbrother should blush and hurriedly pour out an extra cup for herself? What more natural than that George should look at her out of the corner of his eye, and find her looking at him out of the corner of her eye; and that they should both be ashamed at having caught each other in the very act? Nothing more natural, surely.

But George knew what a good many men would not have known—that this was the very moment to go. And go he did.

"Good-bye," said Miss Fairbrother, smiling and holding out a very pretty white hand; "I'm very grateful to you."

"Good-bye," said George, taking the pretty hand in his; "I'm glad I was there."

George walked away in a most satisfied frame of mind. He halted half-way up the terrace and looked back at the great portico and massive windows of the Fairbrother mansion.

"Nice house that," he said; "nice girl too—devilish nice girl!"

Then he called a hansom and drove to Liverpool Street, for, urgent as the firm's business happened to be, his own at the moment was of more consequence.

That night when Gray got home his lodger's room was vacant; George Early had moved into West End lodgings.

Chapter XI—Cupid takes a Hand

Upper Thames Street is not what it used to be in the days when Fairbrothers' was young. One by one the low, grimy warehouses are disappearing, to give place to noble edifices with elaborate office room and electric light. Bit by bit the narrow roadway becomes widened, and the blocking of traffic less frequent.

The language there is not what it used to be. Ancient carmen, who have become locally notorious over victories on the question of choking the narrowest thoroughfare, and who have displayed powers of flowery repartee that no cabman dare challenge, now ride sorrowfully along in silence. Not many of them are left; the newness is killing them off and placing smart young uniformed men in their places.

The public-houses are disappearing, too; at least, the old ones are, for new ones rise rapidly on the same ground, and "business is carried on as usual during alterations." The beer there is not what it used to be; so say the old hands, and they ought to know, for they've taken it regularly enough, and can speak from experience.

Everything in Upper Thames Street is affected by the march of progress; and nothing more noticeably than the City man's caterer.

Forty years ago you had no choice but to pick a midday meal at the nearest tavern or a cook-shop. In the one you met red-faced men who swore, took snuff, and whipped off a pint of ale like winking; in the other melancholy clerks, with family cares and whiskers, consumed boiled beef and carrots in a "dem'd demp," warm atmosphere, and finished up with light snacks of plum-roll, as greasy and melancholy as themselves. The young man with the clean collar was not catered for then as he is to-day. There were young men then, of course—though not many with clean collars—but they couldn't afford boiled beef, and were not so educated to beer. Where they lunched is a mystery. I suspect that the theory of a venerable dock porter, that "they took a bit o' grub in a handkercher, and ate it by the water-side," is very nearly correct. I suppose the office-boys of those days did the same thing.

Now the midday lunch is one great, wonderful and far-spreading meal. It is as various as it is important; the one touch of interest to midday London. No class of the London worker is neglected; none so obscure, strange, or eccentric as to be forgotten. Boiled beef and carrots have fallen into disuse, except among a few obstinate grey-haired clerks, who would sooner give up clerking than change their habits; tavern lunches are popular enough, among bucolic book-keepers; but the great man, the star luncher in the eye of the up-to-date caterer is the young man with the clean collar.

For him and his kin we have the tea-shop, the dining-rooms, the restaurant, the café, Lyons', the A.B.C., the Mecca, and others. Snacks of fish, vegetarian dinners, quick lunches; smart waitresses to serve him and smile upon him. He sits upon a cushioned seat, looks at himself in a mirror placed obsequiously before him, hangs his hat on a servile, gilded knob, and is requested to acquaint the manager with any uncivil behaviour on the part of the menials of the establishment. When my lord has finished his meal, which may cost anything from twopence upwards, a gorgeous smoking-room yawns for his presence, at no extra cost. Here again the seats are cushioned and the mirrors opposite. Here are draughts, dominoes, and chess, kept specially for him. All for the young man with the clean collar, whose pence are worth fawning for—the best customer of the City caterer.

Upper Thames Street, with its noisy vans and riverside associations, has not been neglected by the caterer. It has its sprinkling of smart tea-rooms and restaurants within easy reach. To various of these the office youths of Fairbrothers' betake themselves daily, and to one in particular go two members whom we will follow.

Henry Cacklin is a junior clerk of three months' service, a connoisseur of cigarettes, smart beyond his sixteen years, and a devil with the girls. His companion, William Budd, is a mere office-boy, sixteen also, but with less business ability; due no doubt to his excessive interest in affairs that don't concern him. Cacklin has a strong partiality for sausage-and-mashed, when he can afford it, which is seldom. When he cannot it is his habit to look over the menu and inquire as to the quality of the present batch of sausages, finally deciding that as the last were so disgustingly bad, he must try a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee.

Billy Budd, who makes no secret of his desire to have plenty for money, favours lemonade and the largest penny buns; a selection that arouses the scorn of Cacklin, who wonders how any "feller" can expect to be chummy with the waitress on "buns"!

"Rotten tack that!" he says, contemptuously, toying delicately with his sandwich. "If you had brain work to do, old chap, you'd soon notice the want of a bit of meat."

"No fear," said Billy. "What about old Busby? I saw him 'aving a bun and milk yesterday."

"Busby," said Cacklin, with a sneer; "a lot he hurts himself. I'd like his job at half the price, and keep my grandmother out of the money."

Depreciation of other people's abilities was a sad failing with Cacklin. He had at various times expressed his willingness to take over the work of many of his superiors and do it with "one hand tied behind him," besides showing them "a thing or two" about office work, if they so desired it.

"Here, what do y' think!" said Billy, suddenly, stuffing his mouth full of bun, "Saw old Polly last night and his girl. Nice little daisy, too, she was. Called him 'Thomas'—'Oh, Thomas!'"

Billy was convulsed for a few minutes at his own vulgar wit; much to the disgust of his companion, whose attitude towards the fair sex was distinctly blasé.

"She's no catch," said Cacklin; "I'd like him to see the little bit of goods I met up at Richmond last Sunday. Great Scott! old man, she was rippin'; and quite a kid—only seventeen. She was fair gone, too; I had a regular howling job to get away from her. Promised to meet her on Thursday, just to get away!"

Cacklin laughed at the recollection of his own subterfuge, and tipped a wink to the waitress, who replied with a haughty stare.

"I say," said Billy, turning in his usual way to other people's affairs; "Early's fairly got it, ain't he?"

"What do you mean by 'fairly got it'?" said Cacklin, annoyed at the indifference of the waitress.

"Why, got it with her—the missis. They went off together this morning in a hansom, as chummy as you like. Handed her in, he did, and put it on like winking when he spoke to the cabman; laughin' and talkin' like blazes, they were."

Cacklin winked again, but this time at Billy Budd.