re getting a thousand a year out of my fees. Mistake to kill
the goose that lays the golden eggs. I'll make it twelve hundred. If you
force me to resign my directorships by bankruptcy, you won't get a rap,
you know."

Mr. Brownbee cleared his throat:

"We think, Mr. Heythorp, you should make it at least fifteen hundred. In
that case we might perhaps consider--"

Old Heythorp shook his head.

"We can hardly accept your assertion that we should get nothing in the
event of bankruptcy. We fancy you greatly underrate the possibilities.
Fifteen hundred a year is the least you can do for us."

"See you d---d first."

Another silence followed, then Ventnor, the solicitor, said irascibly:

"We know where we are, then."

Brownbee added almost nervously:

"Are we to understand that twelve hundred a year is your--your last
word?"

Old Heythorp nodded. "Come again this day month, and I'll see what I can
do for you;" and he shut his eyes.

Round Mr. Brownbee six of the gentlemen gathered, speaking in low
voices; Mr. Ventnor nursed a leg and glowered at old Heythorp, who sat
with his eyes closed. Mr. Brownbee went over and conferred with Mr.
Ventnor, then clearing his throat, he said:

"Well, sir, we have considered your proposal; we agree to accept it for
the moment. We will come again, as you suggest, in a month's time.

"We hope that you will by then have seen your way to something more
substantial, with a view to avoiding what we should all regret, but
which I fear will otherwise become inevitable."

Old Heythorp nodded. The eight gentlemen took their hats, and went out
one by one, Mr. Brownbee courteously bringing up the rear.

The old man, who could not get up without assistance, stayed musing in
his chair. He had diddled 'em for the moment into giving him another
month, and when that month was up-he would diddle 'em again! A month
ought to make the Pillin business safe, with all that hung on it. That
poor funkey chap Joe Pillin! A gurgling chuckle escaped his red lips.
What a shadow the fellow had looked, trotting in that evening just a
month ago, behind his valet's announcement: "Mr. Pillin, sir."

What a parchmenty, precise, thread-paper of a chap, with his bird's claw
of a hand, and his muffled-up throat, and his quavery:

"How do you do, Sylvanus? I'm afraid you're not--"

"First rate. Sit down. Have some port."

"Port! I never drink it. Poison to me! Poison!"

"Do you good!"

"Oh! I know, that's