The luggage belonged to the middle-aged man at the window:  the boat was to carry him down the river to the Albemarle, East Indiaman, anchored in the roads with her Surat cargo aboard.  She would sail that night for Bombay and thence away for England.

He was ready; dressed for his journey in a loose white suit, which, though designed for the East, was almost aggressively British.  A Cheapside tailor had cut it, and, had it been black or gray or snuff-coloured instead of white, its wearer might have passed all the way from the Docks to Temple Bar for a solid merchant on ’Change—­a self-respecting man, too, careless of dress for appearance’ sake, but careful of it for his own, and as part of a habit of neatness.  He wore no wig (though the date was 1723), but his own gray hair, brushed smoothly back from a sufficiently handsome forehead and tied behind with a fresh black ribbon.  In his right hand he held a straw hat, broad-brimmed like a Quaker’s, and a white umbrella with a green lining.  His left fingered his clean-shaven chin as he gazed on the river.

The ceremonies of leave-taking were done with and dismissed; so far as he could, he had avoided them.  He had ever been a hard man and knew well enough that the clerks disliked him.  He hated humbug.  He had come to India, almost forty years ago, not to make friends, but to make a fortune.  And now the fortune was made, and the room behind him stood ready, spick and span, for the Scotsman who would take his chair to-morrow.  Drawers had been emptied and dusted, loose papers and memoranda sorted and either burnt or arranged and docketed, ledgers entered up to the last item in his firm handwriting, and finally closed.  The history of his manhood lay shut between their covers, written in figures terser than a Roman classic:  his grand coup in Nunsasee goods, Abdul Guffere’s debt commuted for 500,000 rupees, the salvage of the Ramillies wreck, his commercial duel with Viltul Parrak . . .  And the record had no loose ends.  He owed no man a farthing.

The door behind him opened softly and a small gray-headed man peered into the room.

“Mr. Annesley, if I might take the liberty—­”

“Ah, MacNab?” Samuel Annesley swung round promptly.

“I trust, sir, I do not intrude?”

“‘Intrude,’ man?  Why?”

“Oh, nothing, sir,” answered the little man vaguely, with a dubious glance at Mr. Annesley’s eyes.  “Only I thought perhaps—­at such a moment—­old scenes, old associations—­and you leaving us for ever, sir!”

“Tut, nonsense!  You have something to say to me.  Anything forgotten?”

“Nothing in the way of business, sir.  But it occurred to me—­” Mr. MacNab lowered his voice, “—­Your good lady, up at the burial-ground.  You will excuse me—­at such a time:  but it may be years before I am spared to return home, and if I can do anything in the way of looking after the grave, I shall be proud.  Oh no—­” he went on hurriedly with a flushed face:  “for love, sir; for love, of course:  or, as I should rather say, for old sake’s sake, if that’s not too bold.  It would be a privilege, Mr. Annesley.”