is incog., Charles assumed the style
and title of Mr. Peter Porter, and booked as such in the Etruria
at Liverpool.

The day before starting, however, he went down with me to the City
for an interview with his brokers in Adam's Court, Old Broad Street.
Finglemore, the senior partner, hastened, of course, to receive us.
As we entered his private room a good-looking young man rose and
lounged out. "Halloa, Finglemore," Charles said, "that's that scamp
of a brother of yours! I thought you had shipped him off years and
years ago to China?"

"So I did, Sir Charles," Finglemore answered, rubbing his hands
somewhat nervously. "But he never went there. Being an idle young
dog, with a taste for amusement, he got for the time no further
than Paris. Since then, he's hung about a bit, here, there, and
everywhere, and done no particular good for himself or his family.
But about three or four years ago he somehow 'struck ile': he went
to South Africa, poaching on your preserves; and now he's back
again--rich, married, and respectable. His wife, a nice little
woman, has reformed him. Well, what can I do for you this morning?"

Charles has large interests in America, in Santa Fe and Topekas, and
other big concerns; and he insisted on taking out several documents
and vouchers connected in various ways with his widespread ventures
there. He meant to go, he said, for complete rest and change, on a
general tour of private inquiry--New York, Chicago, Colorado, the
mining districts. It was a millionaire's holiday. So he took all
these valuables in a black japanned dispatch-box, which he guarded
like a child with absurd precautions. He never allowed that box out
of his sight one moment; and he gave me no peace as to its safety
and integrity. It was a perfect fetish. "We must be cautious," he
said, "Sey, cautious! Especially in travelling. Recollect how that
little curate spirited the diamonds out of Amelia's jewel-case! I
shall not let this box out of my sight. I shall stick to it myself,
if we go to the bottom."

We did _not_ go to the bottom. It is the proud boast of the Cunard
Company that it has "never lost a passenger's life"; and the captain
would not consent to send the Etruria to Davy Jones's locker, merely
in order to give Charles a chance of sticking to his dispatch-box
under trying circumstances. On the contrary, we had a delightful
and uneventful passage; and we found our fellow-passengers most
agreeable people. Charles, as