sly--"You have a good solicitor, I suppose?"

"I haven't a solicitor at all," said Walter Hine, as he, too, rose.

"Oh, haven't you?" said Mr. Jarvice, with all the appearance of surprise.
"Well, shall I give you an introduction to one?" He sat down, wrote a
note, placed it in an envelope, which he left unfastened, and addressed
it. Then he handed the envelope to his client.

"Messrs. Jones and Stiles, Lincoln's Inn Fields," he said. "But ask for
Mr. Driver. Tell him the whole proposal frankly, and ask his advice."

"Driver?" said Hine, fingering the envelope. "Hadn't I ought to see one
of the partners?"

Mr. Jarvice smiled.

"You have a business head, Mr. Hine, that's very clear. I'll let you into
a secret. Mr. Driver is rather like yourself--something of a rebel, Mr.
Hine. He came into disagreement with that very arbitrary body the
Incorporated Law Society, so,--well his name does not figure in the firm.
But he _is_ Jones and Stiles. Tell him everything! If he advises you
against my proposal, I shall even say take his advice. Good-morning." Mr.
Jarvice went to the door and opened it.

"Well, this is the spider's web, you know," he said, with the
good-humored laugh of one who could afford to despise the slanders of the
ill-affected. "Not such a very uncomfortable place, eh?" and he bowed Mr.
Fly out of his office.

He stood at the door and waited until the outer office closed. Then he
went to his telephone and rang up a particular number.

"Are you Jones and Stiles?" he asked. "Thank you! Will you ask Mr. Driver
to come to the telephone"; and with Mr. Driver he talked genially for the
space of five minutes.

Then, and not till then, with a smile of satisfaction, Mr. Jarvice turned
to the unopened letters which had come to him by the morning post.

CHAPTER V

MICHEL REVAILLOUD EXPOUNDS HIS PHILOSOPHY

That summer was long remembered in Chamonix. July passed with a
procession of cloudless days; valley and peak basked in sunlight. August
came, and on a hot starlit night in the first week of that month Chayne
sat opposite to Michel Revailloud in the balcony of a cafe which
overhangs the Arve. Below him the river tumbling swiftly amidst the
boulders flashed in the darkness like white fire. He sat facing the
street. Chamonix was crowded and gay with lights. In the little square
just out of sight upon the right, some traveling musicians were singing,
and up and down the street the visitors thronged nois