idea of the harassing details involved in an effort of charity. It's for some hospital, is it not?"

Mrs. Cadell supplied the name.

"We hope to clear off part of the debt. Since the Insurance Act was passed the subscriptions have decreased. So seriously in fact they talk of closing down a ward."

"Indeed?" The Bishop, nervously, evaded the lead into politics.

"Talking of financial losses——" he went on somewhat hurriedly—"reminds me of my morning's work. I'm afraid the ways of the City are quite beyond my understanding."

He sighed as he helped himself to curry.

Mrs. Cadell, to fill the pause, remarked that McTaggart was on the Stock Exchange.

"Really?" The Bishop looked up quickly. "Then, perhaps, he can relieve my mind on the question that is puzzling me."

Into the younger man's blue eyes came a shrewd look of attention. Inwardly he was summing up the possibility of a client.

"Delighted—if I can help at all."

Cydonia stole a glance at him. Here was another side to the picture she already knew by heart.

She watched the serious olive face with its strong chin and tight-closed lips—a hint of obstinacy there which added a strongly British look to his slightly foreign grace, banishing all effeminacy, suggesting a hidden power.

It seemed to her he was snatched away into a world remote from her, and for the first time in her life she felt uneasy, half-afraid ...

"Some years ago," the Bishop blinked, "six, to be strictly accurate, I was induced to invest some money in a new company. I am not quite sure as to the process, but it—the invention—claimed to produce a liquid fuel out of coal-slag at an absurdly low cost. The shares had run up quickly until they were eight pounds apiece—one pound shares, you understand. I gave eight." He paused ruefully.

"And now?" McTaggart prompted gently.

"I believe," the Bishop gave a sigh—"they are selling at ... about twelve shillings! The worst of it is——" his voice rose. "They have never paid a dividend."

"How did you hear of it?" McTaggart felt a half-amused sense of pity.

"One night I was dining with Lord Warleigh. His place, you know, is near Oxton. And the principal director—the promoter of the affair—was staying with him for the week-end, in order to place a block of shares to provide for further working expenses. Warleigh was enthusiastic and as to the man himself, he seemed most reliable, heart and soul absorbed in the scheme. Of German origin, naturalized—Herman Schliff—— Do you know the name?"

"Never heard of it—or the company." McTaggart shook his head.

"No, really?" The Bishop frowned.

"One of the most eloquent men I have ever come across. I remember, at the time——" he smiled apologetically—"I thought what a preacher was lost to the Church! And with it an enthusiasm, a grip of his subject and a faith in the prospects, which carried his listeners bodily away. To give you an example of this, Warleigh's poor old butler invested his savings—the hardly won nest-egg of forty years' service—then and there in the affair. He handed every penny of it over to Schliff before he left."

"What a shame!" Mrs. Cadell's sympathy was plainly aroused—"I suppose he will never get it back?"

"I fear not. And he's one of many." The Bishop frowned thoughtfully. "Looking through a list of shareholders only this morning I was surprised to find many names I knew personally of quite small people with narrow incomes. Good people too, I mean. Service men and petty squires living in the depths of the country."

"Exactly." McTaggart's face was grim—"the usual victims, I'm afraid. But it seems to have dragged on rather longer than these forlorn hopes generally do. What reason do they give for the fall in shares? and the absence of a dividend? What do the reports say?"

"Oh—they're full of excuses." The Bishop's thin, delicate hand went out in a gesture of impatience. "For instance—new machinery—some hitch in the process—a technical difference of opinion between the experts they employ. With always the same golden future dangled before our weary eyes, in Schliff's magnetic and pompous speeches, bolstered up by his tame directors. And the money sunk in it—thousands squandered! With nothing practical to show—to warrant the huge expenditure."

"I suppose by now," McTaggart hazarded, "Schliff's a pretty prosperous man?"

"I couldn't say. To give him his due I should hesitate to class the man in any way as unscrupulous. He has a firm belief in himself and in anything that he undertakes. It's temperamental and most misleading; but I think, according to his light, he's honest. I really think so! That's the perplexing part to me. But he's hypnotized by his own verbosity——" the Bishop paused, pleased with the phrase—"he sees himself a second Napoleon—alas! without his genius for management."

McTaggart allowed himself the luxury of a long-repressed smile.

"The type is perhaps not uncommon. If you like I'll make a few inquiries—quite quietly, of course—and find out what sort of a record he bears in the city. I conclude this isn't his first venture? Herman Schliff ... and the Company?" He made a note upon his cuff. "Oh, it's really no trouble—I'm interested in the affair."

"I wish I were not!" The victim smiled. "But I went on buying after the fall."

Mrs. Cadell's restless eyes met McTaggart's. They both smiled. Then she signalled to the butler to fill up the Bishop's glass.

"Yes, I insist——" as the prelate protested—"it won't hurt you, it's quite light. And here comes your favourite sweet—ordered expressly for you."

The worn face cleared, and he smiled, touched by the other's kindly thought.

"I'm always spoilt in this house," he said, "and I'm afraid that the shocking result is that I take advantage of it, and come too often to loosen my pack of worries here. What can the Sleeping Beauty think of all this dreary business talk?"

He looked across wistfully at Cydonia's lovely face, with next to it the virile contrast of her dark-haired, handsome friend. Only too well he realized the heavy burden of the years and the narrowing road ahead where he must pass with lonely feet. Death he feared not. For the Faith he had long preached was indeed his own. Yet the human in him shrank, faced with the decay of power.

Cydonia's soft brown eyes met his with a child's affection. His question cut across her dreams.

"I?" she hesitated, smiling. "Oh! I like to hear of things."

McTaggart, watching her, caught into his memory an elusive dimple, near the fresh young mouth.

Following up the train of thought provoked by this miracle, he heard the doctor's voice once more, with a note of mischief, in his ears.

"Not married, are you, Mr. McTaggart? Well—you'd better take care ... a fair wife and a dark one..." He was certain, then and there, that his "Scotch heart" lay in Cydonia's hands.

He watched them now, with a languid grace remove the velvety skin of a peach. The faint colour of the fruit was not more fair than her little pink nails.

But swift on the thought came a vision of Fantine—mischievous, provocative, tingling with life; of dark-fringed eyes and full red lips, and honey-coloured fingers that flashed in quick gesture matching each turn of her gay clipped speech.

He thrust aside the picture, half-angrily; conscious of the atmosphere that hung about the Cadells' house, vaguely ecclesiastic and super-refined. The intrusion of Fantine seemed almost profane, the contrast too crude between this sheltered home and the gilded, over-lighted flat. He could see the long rooms with the doors flung wide and the ever-changing brilliant crowd, elbowing each other round the green table with the piled-up stakes and fluttering cards. He could feel once more the strain that hung in the air, the excitement of the lust for gain, the grasping hands and greedy eyes...

"A penny for your thoughts?" He