l as he is, a whole
bunch of stocks we are interested in would tumble down half a dozen
points. That is why I didn't introduce you, Mr. Pratt, as well as Lord
Felixstowe," he added, turning to Jacob. "If they got to know that you
were Mr. Samuel's brother, over from England, it would make them kind
of restless."

"I quite understand," Jacob assented. "I have no desire to make
acquaintances on this side until Sam is well enough to go round with
me."

The meal, a very excellent and somewhat prolonged one, came to a
conclusion about ten o'clock. Morse glanced at his watch.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I am now entirely at your service. If you would
like to go home, I admit that it is my usual custom to retire early.
If, on the other hand, Lord Felixstowe, or even you, Mr. Pratt, would
like to see a little New York night life, I will do my best."

"I am for the giddy whirl," Felixstowe declared promptly. "I have
eaten strange and delicious food of an exhilarating character. The
flavour of terrapin is upon my palate. I am imbibing New York. It is
getting into my blood."

"You are also imbibing a considerable quantity of Pommery," Jacob
observed. "I may have letters for the English mail at nine o'clock
to-morrow morning, remember."

"You will find me waiting by your bedside," the young man promised.
"To-night the magic of a strange city calls."

"If you will take the car home, Mr. Pratt," Morse suggested, "Lord
Felixstowe and I will take a taxi--that is to say, unless you care to
join us."

Jacob shook his head.

"Show Lord Felixstowe everything there is to be seen," he begged. "As
soon as my brother is out of danger, I'll have a turn around myself."

Towards three o'clock, Jacob, who was reading in bed, heard stealthy
footsteps in the next room. He coughed and Felixstowe at once entered.

"So you've got back," Jacob remarked, laying down his book.

Felixstowe's tie had escaped an inch or two to the right, his theatre
hat was set well on the back of his head, his expression was beatific.

"Jacob, old bean," he declared, sitting down heavily upon the bed,
"we've got the knock. London's a back number. We're beaten at the
post."

"In what respect?"

"The lasses!" Felixstowe exclaimed, smacking the part of the bed
where he imagined Jacob's leg to be,--"the lasses, the drink and
the gilded halls! And I'll tell you another thing. Our friend Morse
can take off his spectacles and go a bit. He's no stranger on the
merr