attention.  But he was the owner of a well-shaped forehead, a pair of steady and honest blue eyes, and a firmly cut square chin, and his entire atmosphere conveyed the idea of capacity, resource, and energy.  It pleased Allerdyke, too, to see that the young man was attentive to his own personal appearance—­his well-cut garments bore the undoubted stamp of the Savile Row tailor; the silk hat which covered his crop of sandy hair was the latest thing in Sackville Street headgear; from top to toe he was the smart man-about-town.  And that was the sort of man Marshall Allerdyke liked to have about him, and to see as heads of his departments—­not fops, nor dandies, but men who knew the commercial value of good appearance and smart finish.

“I didn’t know you were in town, Mr. Allerdyke,” said the London manager quietly.  “Still, one never knows where you are these days.”

“I’ve scarcely known that myself, my lad, these last seventy-two hours,” replied Allerdyke.  “You mightn’t think it, but at this time yesterday I was going full tilt up to Edinburgh.  I want to tell you about that, Ambler—­I want some advice.  But business first—­aught new?”

“I’ve brought that South American contract off,” replied Appleyard.  “Fixed it this morning.”

“Good!” said Allerdyke.  “What’s it run to, like?”

“Seventy-five thousand,” answered Appleyard.  “Nice bit of profit on that, Mr. Allerdyke.”

“Good—­good!” repeated Allerdyke.  “Aught else?”

“Naught—­at present.  Naught out of the usual, anyway,” said the manager.

He took off his hat, laid aside the papers he had been busy with on Allerdyke’s entrance, and twisted his chair round to the hearth.  “This advice, then?” he asked quietly.  “I’m free now.”

“Aye!” said Allerdyke.  He sat reflecting for a moment, and then turned to his manager with a sudden question.

“Have you heard all this about my cousin James?” he asked with sharp directness.

Appleyard lifted a couple of newspapers from his desk.

“No more than what’s in these,” he answered.  “One tells of his sudden death at Hull; the other begins to hint that there was something queer about it.”

“Queer!” exclaimed Allerdyke.  “Aye, and more than queer, my lad.  Our James was murdered!  Now, then, Ambler, I’ve come here to tell you all the story—­you must listen to every detail.  I know your brains—­keep ’em fixed on what I’m going to tell; hear it all; weigh it up, and then tell me what you make of it; for I’m damned if I can make either head or tail, back, side, or front of the whole thing—­so far.  Happen you can see a bit of light.  Listen, now.”

Allerdyke, from long training in business habits, was a good teller of a plain and straightforward tale:  Appleyard, for the same reason, was a good listener.  So one man talked, in low, earnest tones, checking off his points as he made them, taking care that he emphasized the principal items of his news and dwelt lightly on the connecting links, and the other listened in silence, keeping a concentrated attention and storing away the facts in his memory as they were duly marshalled before him.  For a good hour one brain gave out, and the other took in, and without waste of words.