secrets of an odious vice.
To study the money-market gave him a headache. He had to go for a
country walk, to bathe and change his clothes, before he was at ease
again.

Two only of his intimates had any practical acquaintance with methods
of speculation, and their experiences hitherto were not such as to
suggest his seeking advice from them. Hugh Carnaby might or might not
reap profit from his cycle factory; as yet it had given him nothing but
worry and wavering hopes. Cecil Morphew had somehow got into better
circumstances, had repaid the loan of fifty pounds, and professed to
know much more about speculation than in the days when he made money
only to lose it again; but it was to be feared that Cecil associated
with people of shady character, and might at any moment come to grief
in a more or less squalid way. He confessed that there was a mystery in
his life--something he preferred not to speak of even with an old
friend.

Oddly enough, Carnaby and Morphew wrote both at the same time, wishing
to see him, and saying that they had cheering news to impart. Amid his
perplexities, which were not concerned with money alone, Harvey
welcomed this opportunity of forgetting himself for a few hours. He
agreed to lunch with Hugh at a restaurant (Carnaby would have nothing
to do with clubs), and bade Morphew to dinner at the Metropolitan.

It was a day of drizzle and slush, but Harvey had got over his sore
throat, and in ordinary health defied the elements. Unlike himself,
Carnaby came a little late for his appointment, and pleaded business
with a 'blackguard' in the City. Rheums and bronchial disorders were to
him unknown; he had never possessed an umbrella, and only on days like
this donned a light overcoat to guard himself against what he called
'the sooty spittle' of a London sky. Yet he was not the man of four or
five years ago. He had the same appearance of muscularity, the same red
neck and mighty fists; but beneath his eyes hung baggy flesh that gave
him a bilious aspect, his cheeks were a little sunken, and the tone of
his complexion had lost its healthy clearness. In temper, too, he had
suffered; perhaps in manners. He used oaths too freely; intermingled
his good bluff English--the English of a country gentleman--with recent
slang; tended to the devil-may-care rather than to the unconsciously
breezy and bold.

'Let us find a corner,' he said, clutching his friend by the shoulder,
'out of the damned crowd.'

'Law