Ten minutes later the splendid, two-thousand guinea motor brougham drew up at the offices of the Judge and the obsequious motor-footman bowed Major Vernon through its rather grimy doorway.  Within, a small boy in a kind of box asked his business, and when he heard his name, said that the “Guvnor” had sent down word that he was go up at once—­third floor, first to the right and second to the left.  So up he went, and when he reached the indicated locality was taken possession of by a worried-looking clerk who had evidently been waiting for him, and almost thrust through a door to find himself in a big, worn, untidy room.  At a huge desk in this room sat an elderly man, also big, worn, and untidy-looking, who waved a long slip of galley-proof in his hand, and was engaged in scolding a sub-editor.

“Who is that?” he said, wheeling round.  “I’m busy, can’t see anyone.”

“I beg your pardon,” answered the Major with humility, “your people told me to come up.  My name is Alan Vernon.”

“Oh!  I remember.  Sit down for a moment, will you, and—­Mr. Thomas, oblige me by taking away this rot and rewriting it entirely in the sense I have outlined.”

Mr. Thomas snatched his rejected copy and vanished through another door, whereon his chief remarked in an audible voice: 

“That man is a perfect fool.  Lucky I thought to look at his stuff.  Well, he is no worse than the rest, in this weary world,” and he burst into a hearty laugh and swung his chair round, adding, “Now then, Alan, what is it?  I have a quarter of an hour at your service.  Why, bless me!  I was forgetting that it’s more than a dozen years since we met; you were still a boy then, and now you have left the army with a D.S.O. and gratuity, and turned financier, which I think wouldn’t have pleased your old father.  Come, sit down here and let us talk.”

“I didn’t leave the army, Mr. Jackson,” answered his visitor; “it left me; I was invalided out.  They said I should never get my health back after that last go of fever, but I did.”

“Ah! bad luck, very bad luck, just at the beginning of what should have been a big career, for I know they thought highly of you at the War Office, that is, if they can think.  Well, you have grown into a fine-looking fellow, like your father, very, and someone else too,” and he sighed, running his fingers through his grizzled hair.  “But you don’t remember her; she was before your time.  Now let us get to business; there’s no time for reminiscences in this office.  What is it, Alan, for like other people I suppose that you want something?”

“It is about that Sahara flotation, Mr. Jackson,” he began rather doubtfully.

The old editor’s face darkened.  “The Sahara flotation!  That accursed——­” and he ceased abruptly.  “What have you, of all people in the world, got to do with it?  Oh!  I remember.  Someone told me that you had gone into partnership with Aylward the company promoter, and that little beast, Champers-Haswell, who really is the clever one.  Well, set it out, set it out.”