As they parted, Sir Paul said: 

“We know each other, and you may take it from me it’s all right.  I’ll say no more.  However, you think it over.”

“Oh!  I will!”

Old Paul touting for eighty thousand pounds!  A wondrous world!  A stupefying world!

Mr. Prohack, who didn’t know what to do with a hundred thousand pounds, saw himself the possessor of a quarter of a million, and was illogically thrilled by the prospect.  But the risk!  Supposing that honest Paul was wrong for once, or suppose he was carried off in the night by a carbuncle,—­Mr. Prohack might find himself a pauper with a mere trifle of twenty thousand pounds to his name.

As soon as he had telephoned he resumed his hat and coat and went out on to the pavement to look for his car, chauffeur and wife.  There was not a sign of them.

* * * * *

III

Mr. Prohack was undeniably a very popular man.  He had few doubts concerning the financial soundness of old Paul’s proposition; but he hesitated, for reasons unconnected with finance or with domesticity, about accepting it.  And he conceived the idea (which none but a very peculiar man would have conceived) of discussing the matter with some enemy of old Paul’s.  Now old Paul had few enemies.  Mr. Prohack, however, could put his hand on one,—­Mr. Francis Fieldfare—­the editor of an old-established and lucrative financial weekly, and familiar to readers of that and other organs as “F.F.”  Mr. Fieldfare’s offices were quite close to Mr. Prohack’s principal club, of which Mr. Fieldfare also was a member, and Mr. Fieldfare had the habit of passing into the club about noon and reading the papers for an hour, lunching early, and leaving the club again just as the majority of the members were ordering their after-lunch coffee.  Mr. Fieldfare pursued this course because he had a deep instinct for being in the minority.  Mr. Prohack looked at his watch.  The resolution of every man is limited in quantity.  Only in mad people is resolution inexhaustible.  Mr. Prohack had no more resolution than becomes an average sane fellow, and his resolution to wait for his wife had been seriously tried by the energetic refusal to go with Spinner to see Smathe.  It now suddenly gave out.

“Pooh!” said Mr. Prohack.  “I’ve waited long enough for her.  She’ll now have to wait a bit for me.”

And off he went by taxi to his club.  The visit, he reflected, would serve the secondary purpose of an inconspicuous re-entry into club-life after absence from it.

He thought: 

“They may have had an accident with that car.  One day she’s certain to have an accident anyhow,—­she’s so impulsive.”

Of course Mr. Fieldfare was not in the morning-room of the club as he ought to have been.  That was bound to happen.  Mr. Prohack gazed around at the monumental somnolence of the great room, was ignored, and backed out into the hall, meaning to return home.  But in the hall he met F.F. just arriving.  It surprised and perhaps a little pained Mr. Prohack to observe that F.F. had evidently heard neither of his illness nor of his inheritance.