Bob Pillin felt the glow of his secret hobby spreading within him.

“She is, though—­lives rather out of town; got a son and daughter.  I thought you might know her stories—­clever woman.”

Mr. Ventnor smiled.  “Ah!” he said enigmatically, “these lady novelists!  Does she make any money by them?”

Bob Pillin knew that to make money by writing meant success, but that not to make money by writing was artistic, and implied that you had private means, which perhaps was even more distinguished.  And he said: 

“Oh! she has private means, I know.”

Mr. Ventnor reached for the Madeira.

“So she’s a relative of old Heythorp’s,” he said.  “He’s a very old friend of your father’s.  He ought to go bankrupt, you know.”

To Bob Pillin, glowing with passion and Madeira, the idea of bankruptcy seemed discreditable in connection with a relative of Phyllis.  Besides, the old boy was far from that!  Had he not just made this settlement on Mrs. Larne?  And he said: 

“I think you’re mistaken.  That’s of the past.”

Mr. Ventnor smiled.

“Will you bet?” he said.

Bob Pillin also smiled.  “I should be bettin’ on a certainty.”

Mr. Ventnor passed his hand over his whiskered face.  “Don’t you believe it; he hasn’t a mag to his name.  Fill your glass.”

Bob Pillin said, with a certain resentment: 

“Well, I happen to know he’s just made a settlement of five or six thousand pounds.  Don’t know if you call that being bankrupt.”

“What!  On this Mrs. Larne?”

Confused, uncertain whether he had said something derogatory or indiscreet, or something which added distinction to Phyllis, Bob Pillin hesitated, then gave a nod.

Mr. Ventnor rose and extended his short legs before the fire.

“No, my boy,” he said.  “No!”

Unaccustomed to flat contradiction, Bob Pillin reddened.

“I’ll bet you a tenner.  Ask Scrivens.”

Mr. Ventnor ejaculated: 

“Scrivens—–­but they’re not—­” then, staring rather hard, he added:  “I won’t bet.  You may be right.  Scrivens are your father’s solicitors too, aren’t they?  Always been sorry he didn’t come to me.  Shall we join the ladies?” And to the drawing-room he preceded a young man more uncertain in his mind than on his feet....

Charles Ventnor was not one to let you see that more was going on within than met the eye.  But there was a good deal going on that evening, and after his conversation with young Bob he had occasion more than once to turn away and rub his hands together.  When, after that second creditors’ meeting, he had walked down the stairway which led to the offices of “The Island Navigation Company,” he had been deep in thought.  Short, squarely built, rather stout, with moustache and large mutton-chop whiskers of a red brown, and a faint floridity in face and dress, he impressed at first sight only by