t of Dartmoor, being stuffy,
not to say malodorous. He rapped on the door of a dingy office, and it
was opened by his son, Mr. Samuel Rosewarne.

"How d'ye do, Sam?" he nodded, not offering to shake hands. "All alone?
That's right. I hope, by the way, I'm not depriving you of a holiday?"

"I seldom take a holiday," Mr. Sam answered.

The old man eyed him ironically. Mr. Sam wore a black suit, with some
show of dingy white shirt-front, relieved by a wisp of black cravat and
two onyx studs. His coat-cuffs were long and frayed, and his elastic-side
boots creaked as he led the way to the office.

In the office the old man came to business at once. "First of all," said
he, with a nod toward the safe, "I'd like a glance into your books."

"Certainly, sir," answered Mr. Sam, after a moment's hesitation.
He unlocked the safe. "Do you wish to take the books in order? You will
find it a long business."

"Man, I don't propose to audit your accounts. If you let me pick and
choose, half an hour will tell me all I want."

Well knowing that his son detested the smell of tobacco, he pulled out
another cigar and lit it. "You can open the window," said he, "if you
prefer the smell of your street. Is this the pass-book?"

For about three-quarters of an hour he ransacked the ledgers, tracking
casual entries from one to another apparently at random. His fingers
raced through the pages. Now and again he looked up to put a sharp
question; and paused, drumming on the table while Mr. Sam explained.
Once he said, "Bad debt? Not a bit; the man was right enough, if you had
made inquiries."

"I _did_ make inquiries."

"Ay, into his balance. So you pinched him at the wrong moment, and
pinched out ninepence in the pound. Why the devil couldn't you have
learnt something of the _man? He_ was all right. If you'd done that, you
might have recovered every penny, earned his gratitude, and done dashed
good business."

He shut the ledger with a slam. "Lock 'em up," he commanded, lighting a
fresh cigar, "and come up to the Hoe for a stroll. Where the deuce did
you pick up that hat?"

"Bankrupt stock."

"I thought so. Maybe you've invested in a full suit of mourning for _me_,
at the same time?"

"No, sir."

"Why not? The books are all right. You've no range. Still, within your
scope you're efficient. You'll get to your goal, such as it is. You wear
a hat that makes me ill, but in some way you and your hat will repre