“Let’s see,” added Sir Robert to himself.  “Old Jackson, the editor of The Judge, was a great friend of Vernon’s father, the late Sir William Vernon, G.C.B.  I believe that he was engaged to be married to his sister years ago, only she died or something.  So the Major ought to be able to get round him if anybody can.  Only the worst of it is I don’t altogether trust that young gentleman.  It suited us to give him a share in the business because he is an engineer who knows the country, and this Sahara scheme was his notion, a very good one in a way, and for other reasons.  Now he shows signs of kicking over the traces, wants to know too much, is developing a conscience, and so forth.  As though the promoters of speculative companies had any business with consciences.  Ah! here he comes.”

Sir Robert seated himself at his desk and resumed his calculations upon a half-sheet of note-paper, and that moment a clear, hearty voice was heard speaking to the clerks in the outer office.  Then came the sound of a strong, firm footstep, the door opened and Major Alan Vernon appeared.

He was still quite a young man, not more than thirty-two or three years of age, though he lacked the ultra robust and rubicund appearance which is typical of so many Englishmen of his class at this period of life.  A heavy bout of blackwater fever acquired on service in West Africa, which would have killed anyone of weaker constitution, had robbed his face of its bloom and left it much sallower, if more interesting than once it had been.  For in a way there was interest about the face; also a certain charm.  It was a good and honest face with a rather eager, rather puzzled look, that of a man who has imagination and ideas and who searches for the truth but fails to find it.  As for the charm, it lay for the most part in the pleasant, open smile and in the frank but rather round brown eyes overhung by a somewhat massive forehead which projected a little, or perhaps the severe illness already alluded to had caused the rest of the face to sink.  Though thin, the man was bigly built, with broad shoulders and well-developed limbs, measuring a trifle under six feet in height.

Such was the outward appearance of Alan Vernon.  As for his mind, it was able enough in certain fashions, for instance those of engineering, and the soldier-like faculties to which it had been trained; frank and kindly also, but in other respects not quick, perhaps from its unsuspiciousness.  Alan Vernon was a man slow to discover ill and slower still to believe in it even when it seemed to be discovered, a weakness that may have gone far to account for his presence in the office of those eminent and brilliant financiers, Messrs. Aylward & Champers-Haswell.  Just now he looked a little worried, like a fish out of water, or rather a fish which has begun to suspect the quality of the water, something in its smell or taste.

“Jeffreys tells me that you want to see me, Sir Robert,” he said in his low and pleasant voice, looking at the baronet rather anxiously.