“Where?  Under my plate! what a place to put it.  That’s you,” and John Martin frowned, or rather, attempted to frown, at Gladys.  “Why it’s about Davenport—­Dick Davenport.  He’s very ill—­had a stroke yesterday, and the doctor declares his condition critical.  His nephew, Shiel, so Anne says, has been sent for, and arrived at Sydenham last night!  If that’s not bad news I don’t know what is!” John Martin said, thrusting his plate away from him and leaning back in his chair.  “It’s true I can manage the business all right myself—­and there’s the possibility, of course, that this young Shiel may shape all right.  I suppose if anything happens he will step into Dick’s shoes.  I’ve never heard Dick mention any one else.  Poor old Dick!”

“I am so sorry, father!” Gladys said, laying her hand on his.  “But cheer up!  It may not be as bad as you expect.  Shall you go and see how he is?”

“I think so, my dear!  I think so,” John Martin replied, “but don’t worry me about it now.  Talk to your aunt and leave me out of it, I’m a bit upset.  My brain’s in a regular whirl!”

Undoubtedly the news was something in the nature of a blow:  for Dick Davenport, apart from being John Martin’s partner—­partner in the firm of Martin and Davenport, the world-renowned conjurors, whose hall in the Kingsway was one of the chief amusement places in London, was John Martin’s oldest friend.  They had been chums at Cheltenham College, had entered the Army and gone to India together, had quitted the Service together, and, on returning together to England, had started their conjuring business, first of all in Sloane Street, and subsequently in the Kingsway.  From the very start their enterprise had met with success, and, had it not been for Davenport’s wild extravagance, they would have been little short of millionaires.  But Davenport, though a most lovable character in every respect, could not keep money—­he no sooner had it than it was gone.  His house in Sydenham was little short of a palace; whilst, it was said, he almost rivalled royalty, in magnificent display, whenever he entertained.  The result of all this reckless expenditure was no uncommon one—­he ran through considerably more than he earned and—­as there was no one else to help him—­he invariably came down on John Martin.  It was “Jack, old boy, I’m damned sorry, but I must have another thousand;” or, “Jack! these infernal scamps of creditors are worrying the life out of me, can you, will you, lend me a trifle—­a couple of thousand will do it”—­and so on—­so on, ad infinitum.  John Martin never refused, and at the time of Davenport’s illness, the latter owed him something like a hundred thousand pounds.

Fortunately John Martin, though far from parsimonious, was careful.  He had an excellent business head, and, thanks to his sagacious share in the management, the business remained solvent.  He knew Davenport’s capacity—­that nowhere could he have found another such a brilliant genius in conjuring—­nor, apart from his thriftlessness, any one so thoroughly reliable.  In Davenport’s keeping all the great tricks they had invented—­and great tricks they undoubtedly were—­were absolutely safe.