his young friend upon the knee with
an air of great benevolence. "Come, to business! Your circumstances are
not, I think, in a very flourishing condition."

"I should think not," said Walter Hine, sullenly. "I have a hundred and
fifty a year, paid weekly. Three quid a week don't give a fellow much
chance of a flutter."

"Three pounds a week. Ridiculous!" cried Mr. Jarvice, lifting up his
hands. "I am shocked, really shocked. But we will alter all that. Oh yes,
we will soon alter that."

He sprang up briskly, and unlocking once more the drawer in which he kept
his copy of the Code Napoleon, he took out this time a slip of paper. He
seated himself again, drawing up his chair to the table.

"Will you tell me, Mr. Hine, whether these particulars are correct? We
must be business-like, you know. Oh yes," he said, gaily wagging his head
and cocking his bright little eyes at his visitor. And he began to read
aloud, or rather paraphrase, the paper which he held:

"Your father inherited the same fortune as your uncle, Joseph Hine, but
lost almost the entire amount in speculation. In middle life he married
your mother, who was--forgive me if I wound the delicacy of your
feelings, Mr. Hine--not quite his equal in social position. The happy
couple then took up their residence in Arcade Street, Croydon, where you
were born on March 6, twenty-three years ago."

"Yes," said Walter Hine.

"In Croydon you passed your boyhood. You were sent to the public school
there. But the rigorous discipline of school life did not suit your
independent character." Thus did Mr. Jarvice gracefully paraphrase the
single word "expelled" which was written on his slip of paper. "Ah, Mr.
Hine," he cried, smiling indulgently at the sullen, bemused weakling who
sat before him, stale with his last night's drink. "You and Shelley!
Rebels, sir, rebels both! Well, well! After you left school, at the age
of sixteen, you pursued your studies in a desultory fashion at home. Your
father died the following year. Your mother two years later. You have
since lived in Russell Street, Bloomsbury, on the income which remained
from your father's patrimony. Three pounds a week--to be sure, here it
is--paid weekly by trustees appointed by your mother. And you have
adopted none of the liberal professions. There we have it, I think."

"You seem to have taken a lot of trouble to find out my history," said
Walter Hine, suspiciously.

"Business, sir, business," said Mr. J