et-player and athlete, stared boldly and triumphantly at you. He
had a fine desk covered with massive silver ornaments. Upon this, as
upon everything else in the room, was the hall-mark of the successful
man of business. The papers, the pens and pencils, the filed bills and
letters, the books of reference, spoke eloquently of a mind that used
order as a means to a definite end. All his books were well bound. His
boots were on trees. His racquets were in their press. Had you opened
his chest of drawers, you would have found his clothes in perfect
condition. Obviously, to an observant eye, the owner of this room gave
his mind to details, because he realized that on details hang great and
successful enterprises.

Scaife stared at John, but welcomed him civilly enough. Cricket, of
course, explained this unexpected visit. As Desmond blurted out what was
in his mind, Scaife frowned; then he laughed unpleasantly.

"And so I told Jonathan," concluded Desmond.

"So you told Jonathan," repeated Scaife. "Are you in the habit of
telling Jonathan,"--the derisive inflection as he pronounced the name
warned John at least that he had much better have stayed away--"things
which concern others and which don't concern him?"

"If you're going to take it like that----"

"Keep cool, Caesar. I'll admit that you mean well. I should like to hear
what Verney has to say."

At that John spoke--haltingly. Fluent speech upon any subject very dear
to him had always been difficult. He could talk glibly enough about
ordinary topics; his sense of humour, his retentive memory, made him
welcome even in the critical society of Eaton Square, but you know him
as a creature of unplumbed reserves. The matter in hand was so vital
that he could not touch it with firm hands or voice. He spoke at his
worst, and he knew it; concluding an incoherent and slightly
inarticulate recital of the reasons which ought to keep Scaife in his
house at night with a lame "Two heads ought to prevail against one."

Scaife showed his fine teeth. "You think that? Your head and Caesar's
against mine?"

The challenge revealed itself in the derisive, sneering tone.

John shrugged his shoulders and rose. "I have blundered; I am sorry."

"Hold hard," said Scaife. He read censure upon Desmond's ingenuous
countenance. Then his temper whipped him to a furious resentment against
John, as an enemy who had turned the tables with good breeding; who had
gained, indeed, a victory agains