r, envelope and
all. "I have here a letter from my father, who is in Rome. I'll read
it to you. No; you can read it yourself."

The tailor read the letter.

"Very handsome," he replied; "_very_ handsome indeed, sir. Your father
is a true gentleman."

"It happens," said Beaumont-Greene, more easily, for the thing seemed
to be simpler than he had anticipated--"it happens that I _do_ want to
make some presents, but I'm not going to buy them here. I shall send
to the Stores, you know. I have their catalogue."

"Just so, sir. Excellent place the Stores for nearly everything;
except, perhaps, my line."

"I should not think of buying clothes there. But at the Stores one
must pay cash. I've not got the cash, and my father is in Rome. I
should like to have the money to-day, if possible. Will you oblige me?"

The tradesman hesitated. In the past there have been grave scandals
connected with lending money to boys. And Harrow tradesmen are at the
mercy of the Head Master. If a school-tailor be put out of bounds, he
can put up his shutters at once. Still----

"I'll let you have the money," said the man, eying Beaumont-Greene
keenly.

"Thanks."

The tailor observed a slight flush and a sudden intake of breath--signs
which stirred suspicion.

"Will you take it in notes, sir?"

Here Beaumont-Greene made his first blunder. He had an ill-defined
idea that paper was dangerous stuff.

"In gold, please."

He forgot that gold is not easily sent in a letter. The tailor
hesitated, but he had gone too far to back out.

"Very well, sir. I have not twenty-five pounds----"

"Thirty, if you please. I shall want thirty."

"I have not quite that amount here, but I can get it."

When the man came back with a small canvas bag in his hand,
Beaumont-Greene had pocketed the letter. He received the money,
counted it, thanked the tailor, and turned to go.

"If you please, sir----"

"Yes?"

"I should like to keep your father's letter, sir. As a form of
receipt, sir. When you settle I'll return it. If--if anything should
happen to--to you, sir, where would I be?"

Beaumont-Greene's temper showed itself.

"You all talk as if I was on my death-bed," he said.

The tailor stared. Others, then, had suggested to this large,
unwholesome youth the possibility of premature decease.

"Not at all, sir, but we do live in the valley of shadders. My wife's
step-father, as fine and hearty a specimen as you'd wish to