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“Do you happen,” he said airily, “to know a Mrs. Larne–relative of old Heythorp’s–rather a handsome woman-she writes stories.”

Mr. Ventnor shook his head. A closer scrutiny than Bob Pillin’s would have seen that he also moved his ears.

“Of old Heythorp’s? Didn’t know he had any, except his daughter, and that son of his in the Admiralty.”

Bob Pillin felt the glow of his secret hobby spreading within him.

“She is, though–lives rather out of town; got a son and daughter. I thought you might know her stories–clever woman.”

Mr. Ventnor smiled. “Ah!” he said enigmatically, “these lady novelists! Does she make any money by them?”

Bob Pillin knew that to make money by writing meant success, but that not to make money by writing was artistic, and implied that you had private means, which perhaps was even more distinguished. And he said:

“Oh! she has private means, I know.”

Mr. Ventnor reached for the Madeira.

“So she’s a relative of old Heythorp’s,” he said. “He’s a very old friend of your father’s. He ought to go bankrupt, you know.”

To Bob Pillin, glowing with passion and Madeira, the idea of bankruptcy seemed discreditable in connection with a relative of Phyllis. Besides, the old boy was far from that! Had he not just made this settlement on Mrs. Larne? And he said:

“I think you’re mistaken. That’s of the past.”

Mr. Ventnor smiled.

“Will you bet?” he said.

Bob Pillin also smiled. “I should be bettin’ on a certainty.”

Mr. Ventnor passed his hand over his whiskered face. “Don’t you believe it; he hasn’t a mag to his name. Fill your glass.”

Bob Pillin said, with a certain resentment:

“Well, I happen to know he’s just made a settlement of five or six thousand pounds. Don’t know if you call that being bankrupt.”

“What! On this Mrs. Larne?”

Confused, uncertain whether he had said something derogatory or indiscreet, or something which added distinction to Phyllis, Bob Pillin hesitated, then gave a nod.

Mr. Ventnor rose and extended his short legs before the fire.

“No, my boy,” he said. “No!”

Unaccustomed to flat contradiction, Bob Pillin reddened.

“I’ll bet you a tenner. Ask Scrivens.”

Mr. Ventnor ejaculated:

“Scrivens—but they’re not–” then, staring rather hard, he added: “I won’t bet. You may be right. Scrivens are your father’s solicitors too, aren’t they? Always been sorry he didn’t come to me. Shall we join the ladies?” And to the drawing-room he preceded a young man more uncertain in his mind than on his feet….

Charles Ventnor was not one to let you see that more was going on within than met the eye. But there was a good deal going on that evening, and after his conversation with young Bob he had occasion more than once to turn away and rub his hands together. When, after that second creditors’ meeting, he had walked down the stairway which led to the offices of “The Island Navigation Company,” he had been deep in thought. Short, squarely built, rather stout, with moustache and large mutton-chop whiskers of a red brown, and a faint floridity in face and dress, he impressed at first sight only by a certain truly British vulgarity. One felt that here was a hail-fellow–well-met man who liked lunch and dinner, went to Scarborough for his summer holidays, sat on his wife, took his daughters out in a boat and was never sick. One felt that he went to church every Sunday morning, looked upwards as he moved through life, disliked the unsuccessful, and expanded with his second glass of wine. But then a clear look into his well-clothed face and red-brown eyes would give the feeling: ‘There’s something fulvous here; he might be a bit too foxy.’ A third look brought the thought: ‘He’s certainly a bully.’ He was not a large creditor of old Heythorp. With interest on the original, he calculated his claim at three hundred pounds–unredeemed shares in that old Ecuador mine. But he had waited for his money eight years, and could never imagine how it came about that he had been induced to wait so long. There had been, of course, for one who liked “big pots,” a certain glamour about the personality of old Heythorp, still a bit of a swell in shipping circles, and a bit of an aristocrat in Liverpool. But during the last year Charles Ventnor had realised that the old chap’s star had definitely set–when that happens, of course, there is no more glamour, and the time has come to get your money. Weakness in oneself and others is despicable! Besides, he had food for thought, and descending the stairs he chewed it: He smelt a rat–creatures for which both by nature and profession he had a nose. Through Bob Pillin, on whom he sometimes dwelt in connection with his younger daughter, he knew that old Pillin and old Heythorp had been friends for thirty years and more. That, to an astute mind, suggested something behind this sale. The thought had already occurred to him when he read his copy of the report. A commission would be a breach of trust, of course, but there were ways of doing things; the old chap was devilish hard pressed, and human nature was human nature! His lawyerish mind habitually put two and two together. The old fellow had deliberately appointed to meet his creditors again just after the general meeting which would decide the purchase–had said he might do something for them then. Had that no significance?