“Marvellous indeed,” his Chief assented.  “Now listen to me, Dredlinton.  Why are you sitting there, looking like a whipped dog?  Why can’t you wear a more cheerful face?  If it’s Farnham’s cheque you are worrying about, here it is,” he added, drawing an oblong slip of paper from the pigeonhole of his desk, tearing it in two, and throwing it into the waste-paper basket.  “A year ago, you told me that the one thing in the world you needed was money.  Well, aren’t you getting it?  You have only to run straight with us here, and to work in my interests in another quarter that you know of, and your fortune is made.  Cheer up and look as though you realised it.”

Dredlinton crossed and uncrossed his legs nervously.  His eyes were bloodshot and his eyelids puffy.  Notwithstanding careful grooming, he had the air of a man running fast to seed.

“I am nervous this morning, Phipps,” he confided.  “Had a bad night.  Every one I’ve come across, too, lately, seems to be cursing the B. & I.”

“Let them curse,” was the equable reply.  “We can afford to hear a few harsh words when we are making money on such a scale.”

“Yes, but how long is it going to last?” Dredlinton asked fretfully.  “Did you see the questions that were asked in the House yesterday?”

Phipps leaned back in his chair and laughed quietly.

“Questions?  Yes!  Who cares about them?  Believe me, Dredlinton, our Government has one golden rule.  It never interferes with private enterprise.  I don’t know whether you realise it, but since the war there is more elasticity about trading methods than there was before.  The worst that could happen to us might be that they appointed a commission to investigate our business methods.  Well, they’d find it uncommonly hard to get at the bottom of them, and by the time they were in a position to make a report, the whole thing would be over.”

“It’s making us damned unpopular,” Dredlinton grumbled.

“For the moment,” the other agreed, “but remember this.  There was never such a thing as an unpopular millionaire known in history, so long as he chose to spend his money.”

Dredlinton drew a letter from his pocket and handed it across the table.

“Read that,” he invited.  “It’s the fifth I’ve had within the last two days.”

Phipps glanced at the beginning and the end, and threw it carelessly back.

“Pooh!  A threatening letter!” he exclaimed.  “Why, I had a dozen of those this morning.  My secretary is making a scrapbook of them.”

“That one of mine seems pretty definite, doesn’t it?” Dredlinton remarked nervously.

“Some of mine were uncommonly plain-spoken,” Phipps acknowledged, “but what’s the odds?  You’re not a coward, Dredlinton; neither am I. Neither is Skinflint Martin, nor Stanley.  Chuck letters like that on the fire, as they have, and keep cheerful.  The streets of London are the safest place in the world.  No cable from your friend in New York yet?”