ere's as much justice in England as you'll ever get anywheres else!"
interrupted the hostess at the bar, nodding cheerfully at the men, and
smiling,--"And as for the motor-cars, they bring custom to my house, and
I don't grumble at anything which does me and mine a good turn. If it
hadn't been for a break-down in that big motor standing outside in the
stableyard, I shouldn't have had two gentlemen staying in my best rooms
to-night. I never find fault with money!"

She laughed and nodded again in the pleasantest manner. A slow smile
went round among the men,--it was impossible not to smile in response to
the gay good-humour expressed on such a beaming countenance.

"One of them's a lord, too," she added. "Quite a young fellow, just come
into his title, I suppose." And referring to her day-book, she ran her
plump finger down the various entries. "I've got his name
here--Wrotham,--Lord Reginald Wrotham."

"Wrotham? That aint a name known in these parts," said the man in
corduroys. "Wheer does 'e come from?"

"I don't know," she replied. "And I don't very much care. It's enough
for me that he's here and spending money!"

"Where's his chauffy?" inquired a lad, lounging near the bar.

"He hasn't got one. He drives his car himself. He's got a friend with
him--a Mr. James Brookfield."

There was a moment's silence. Helmsley drew further back into the corner
where he sat, and restrained the little dog Charlie from perking its
inquisitive head out too far, lest its beauty should attract
undesirable attention. His nervous misgivings concerning the owner of
the motor-car had not been entirely without foundation, for both
Reginald Wrotham and James Brookfield were well known to him. Wrotham's
career had been a sufficiently disgraceful one ever since he had entered
his teens,--he was a modern degenerate of the worst type, and though his
coming-of-age and the assumption of his family title had caused certain
time-servers to enrol themselves among his flatterers and friends, there
were very few decent houses where so soiled a member of the aristocracy
as he was could find even a semblance of toleration. James Brookfield
was a proprietor of newspapers as well as a "something in the City," and
if Helmsley had been asked to qualify that "something" by a name, he
would have found a term by no means complimentary to the individual in
question. Wrotham and Brookfield were always seen together,--they were
brothers in every sort of soci