h?" Renton pulled up and looked at him shrewdly. "What's wrong?
Nothing to do with the old firm, now, surely? . . . I get the London
_Times_ sent over, and your last Shareholders' Meeting was a perfect
Hallelujah Chorus. Why, you're quoted--"

Now you'll know Farrell, by this time, for a man of his class--and a
pretty good class it is, in England, when all's said and done; for a
man of the sort that resents a suspicion on his business about as
quickly as he'd resent one on his private and domestic honour--
perhaps even a trifle more smartly. His business, in short, _is_ the
first home and hearth of his honour. So Farrell cut in, very quick
and hot,--

"If my business were only twice as solid as yours, Ned Renton, I
might be worrying you about it. . . . There, don't take me amiss!
. . . I've come to trouble you about myself. Fact is, I'm in a
hole. There's a man after me; and I want you to get me out of this
place pretty quick and without drawing any attention more than you
can avoid."

"O-oh!" said Renton, rubbing his chin, and looking serious. "And
what about the lady?"

"There's no woman in this," Farrell assured him. "No, Ned; nor the
trace of one."

"That's curious," said Renton, still reflective. "You being a
widower, I thought, maybe . . . But as between friends, you'll
understand, I'm not asking."

"I'll tell you the gist of it later," said Farrell. "It started over
politics."

"So? . . . We've a way with that trouble over here," said Renton.
"Now you mention it, I'd read in the London _Times_ that you were
running for municipal government, and then somehow you seemed to fade
out. . . . I wondered why. . . . Is that part of the story?"

Farrell answered that it was. They were seated in Renton's private
office, and Renton picked up a small square block of wood from his
desk. It looked like a paper-weight.

"I've a certain amount of--well, we'll call it influence--hereabouts,
if any man happens to be troubling you," he suggested musingly, and
glanced at Farrell. "But you're not taking it that way, I see."

Farrell nodded.

"You just want to be cleared out. . . . That's all right. You shall
tell me all about it later, boss--any time that suits you."
He handed the paperweight across to Farrell. "Ever come across that
kind of wood?" he asked.

Farrell examined it. "Never," he answered. "It looks like
mahogany--if 'tweren't for the colour. Dyed, is it?"

"Not a bit. I could show