ed, leaning back in his chair.
"Anything more you want for the place, Dick?"

The two men looked around. There were rows of neatly arranged files,
all empty; an unused typewriter; a dictaphone and telephone. The outer
office, where Dauncey spent much of his time, was furnished with the
same quiet elegance as the inner apartment. There seemed to be nothing
lacking.

"A larger waste-paper basket is the only thing I can suggest," Dauncey
observed drily.

Then came the sound for which, with different degrees of interest,
both men had been waiting since the opening of the offices a fortnight
before. There was a tap at the outer door, the sound of a bell and
footsteps in the passage. Dauncey hurried out, closing the door of
the private office behind him. His chief drew a packet of papers from
a receptacle in his desk, forced a frown on to his smooth forehead,
and buried himself in purposeless calculations.

Dauncey confronted the visitors. There were two of them--one whose
orientalism of speech and features was unsuccessfully camouflaged
by the splendour of his city attire, the other a rather burly,
middle-aged man, in a worn tweed suit, carrying a bowler hat, with no
gloves, and having the general appearance of a builder or tradesman
of some sort. His companion took the lead.

"Is Mr. Jacob Pratt in?" he enquired.

"Mr. Pratt is in but very busy," Dauncey answered doubtfully. "Have
you an appointment?"

"We have not, but we are willing to await Mr. Pratt's convenience,"
was the eager reply. "Will you be so good as to take in my card? Mr.
Montague, my name is--Mr. Dane Montague."

Dauncey accepted the mission after a little hesitation, knocked
reverently at the door of the inner office, and went in on tiptoe,
closing the door behind him. He presented the card to Jacob, who was
busily engaged in polishing the tip of one of his patent shoes with a
fragment of blotting paper.

"A full-blown adventure," he announced. "A man who looks like a
money-lender, and another who might be his client."

"Did they state the nature of their business?" Jacob demanded.

"They did not, but it is written in the face of Mr. Dane Montague. He
wants as much of your million as he can induce you to part with. What
his methods may be, however, I don't know."

"Show them in when I ring the bell," Jacob directed, drawing the
packet of papers once more towards him. "Extraordinarily complicated
mass of figures here," he added.

Dauncey wi