By eleven o’clock on Monday he was in Mr. Pearson’s office.  After the first involuntary smile, concealed by the fair moustaches, and instantly dismissed, with which the eminent lawyer greeted the announcement of his visitor’s name, the two augurs carried through their affairs with perfect decorum.  Wharton realised, indeed, that he was being firmly handled.  Mr. Pearson gave the Clarion a week in which to accomplish its retreat and drop its strike fund.  And the fund was to be “checked” as soon as possible.

A little later, when Wharton abruptly demanded a guarantee of secrecy, Mr. Pearson allowed himself his first—­visible—­smile.

“My dear sir, are such things generally made public property?  I can give you no better assurance than you can extract yourself from the circumstances.  As to writing—­well!—­I should advise you very strongly against anything of the sort.  A long experience has convinced me that in any delicate negotiation the less that is written the better.”

Towards the end Wharton turned upon his companion sharply, and asked: 

“How did you discover that I wanted money?”

Mr. Pearson lifted his eyebrows pleasantly.

“Most of the things in this world, Mr. Wharton, that one wants to know, can be found out.  Now—­I have no wish to hurry you—­not in the least, but I may perhaps mention that I have an important appointment directly.  Don’t you think—­we might settle our business?”

Wharton was half-humorously conscious of an inward leap of fury with the necessities which had given this man—­to whom he had taken an instantaneous dislike—­the power of dealing thus summarily with the member for West Brookshire.  However, there was no help for it; he submitted, and twenty minutes afterwards he left Lincoln’s Inn carrying documents in the breast-pocket of his coat which, when brought under his bankers’ notice, would be worth to him an immediate advance of some eight thousand pounds.  The remainder of the purchase-money for his “shares” would be paid over to him as soon as his part of the contract had been carried out.

He did not, however, go to his bank, but straight to the Clarion office, where he had a mid-day appointment with Louis Craven.

At first sight of the tall, narrow-shouldered form and anxious face waiting for him in his private room, Wharton felt a movement of ill-humour.

Craven had the morning’s Clarion in his hand.

“This cannot mean”—­he said, when they had exchanged a brief salutation—­“that the paper is backing out?”

He pointed to the suspicious paragraph in Wharton’s leader, his delicate features quivering with an excitement he could ill repress.

“Well, let us sit down and discuss the thing,” said Wharton, closing the door, “that’s what I wired to you for.”