amous part of the landlady of a boarding-house, remarked,
"I know why my ole man's so late. 'E's buying zinc," is still remembered
in the bars round Piccadilly.

. . . . .

To explain it properly it will be necessary (my readers will be alarmed
to hear) to go back some thirty years. This, as a simple calculation
shows, takes us to June, 18--. It was in June, 18-- that Felix Moses, a
stout young man of attractive appearance (if you care for that style),
took his courage in both hands, and told Phyllida Sloan that he was
worth ten thousand a year and was changing his name to Mountenay. Miss
Sloan, seeing that it was the beginning of a proposal, said hastily
that she was changing hers to Abraham.

"You're marrying Leo Abraham?" asked Felix in amazement. "Ah!" A gust of
jealousy swept over him. He licked his lips. There was a dangerous look
in his eyes--a look that was destined in after days to make Emperors and
rival financiers quail. "Ah!" he said softly. "Leo Abraham! I shall not
forget!"

. . . . .

And now it will be necessary (my readers will be relieved to learn) to
jump forward some thirty years. This obviously takes us to September
19--. Let us on this fine September morning take a peep into "No. --
Throgneedle Street, E.C.," and see how the business of the mother city
is carried on.

On the fourth floor we come to the sanctum of the great man himself.
"Mr. Felix Mountenay--No admittance," is painted upon the outer door. It
is a name which is known and feared all over Europe. Mr. Mountenay's
private detective stands on one side of the door; on the other side is
Mr. Mountenay's private wolf-hound. Murmuring the word "Press," however,
we pass hastily through, and find ourselves before Mr. Mountenay
himself. Mr. Mountenay is at work; let us watch him through a typical
five minutes.

For a moment he stands meditating in the middle of the room. Kings are
tottering on their thrones. Empires hang upon his nod. What will he
decide? Suddenly he blows a cloud of smoke from his cigar, and rushes to
the telephone.

"Hallo! Is that you, Jones?... What are Margarine Prefs. at?...
_What?..._ No, Margarine _Prefs._, idiot.... Ah! Then sell. Keep on
selling till I tell you to stop.... Yes."

He hangs up the receiver. For two minutes he paces the room, smoking
rapidly. He stops a moment ... but it is only to remove his cigar-band,
which is in danger of burning