"

"Certainly," said Duplay. He was in good humor, better perhaps than if
his chief had proved more signally successful. Harry turned to him,
smiling.

"I saw Madame Zabriska last night, at Lady Tristram's house. She's
forsaken you, Major?"

"Mina's very busy about something," smiled the Major.

"Yes, she generally is," said Harry, frowning a little. "If she tells
you anything about me----"

"I'm not to believe it?"

"You may believe it, but not the way she puts it," laughed Harry.

"Now there's an end of business! Walk down to the Imperium with me,
Harry, and have a bit of lunch. You've earned it, eh? How do you like
the feeling of making money?"

"Well, I think it might grow on a man. What's your experience?"

"Sometimes better than this morning, or I should hardly have been your
neighbor at Fairholme."

The two walked off together, leaving Duplay and Sloyd very amicable.
Iver was thoughtful.

"You did that well," he said as they turned the corner into Berkeley
Square.

"I suppose I learnt to bluff a bit when I was at Blent."

"That was all right, but--well, how did you put your finger on the
figure?"

"I don't know. It looked like being about that, you know."

"It was very exactly that," admitted Iver.

"Rather a surprise to find our friend the Major going into business with
you."

"He'll be useful, I think, and--well, I'm short of help." He was eying
Harry now, but he said no more about the morning's transaction till they
reached the club.

"Perhaps we shall find Neeld here," he remarked, as they went in.

They did find Neeld, and also Lord Southend, the latter gentleman in a
state of disturbance about his curry. It was not what any man would
seriously call a curry; it was no more than a fortuitous concurrence of
mutton and rice.

"It's an extraordinary thing," he observed to Iver, "that whenever
Wilmot Edge is away, the curries in this club go to the devil--to the
devil. And he's always going off somewhere, confound him!"

"He can't be expected to stay at home just to look after your curry,"
Iver suggested.

"I suppose he's in South America, or South Africa, or South somewhere or
other out of reach. Waiter!" The embarrassed servant came. "When is
Colonel Edge expected back?"

"In a few weeks, I believe, my Lord."

"Who's Chairman of the Committee while he's away?"

"Mr Gore-Marston, my Lord."

"There--what can you expect?" He pushed away his plate. "Bring me some
cold beef," he