declared that he was going to make none, something had turned sour in his heart, and he had said to himself:  “All right, you old rascal!  You don’t know C. V.”  The cavalier manner of that beggarly old rip, the defiant look of his deep little eyes, had put a polish on the rancour of one who prided himself on letting no man get the better of him.  All that evening, seated on one side of the fire, while Mrs. Ventnor sat on the other, and the younger daughter played Gounod’s Serenade on the violin—­he cogitated.  And now and again he smiled, but not too much.  He did not see his way as yet, but had little doubt that before long he would.  It would not be hard to knock that chipped old idol off his perch.  There was already a healthy feeling among the shareholders that he was past work and should be scrapped.  The old chap should find that Charles V. was not to be defied; that when he got his teeth into a thing, he did not let it go.  By hook or crook he would have the old man off his Boards, or his debt out of him as the price of leaving him alone.  His life or his money—­and the old fellow should determine which.  With the memory of that defiance fresh within him, he almost hoped it might come to be the first, and turning to Mrs. Ventnor, he said abruptly: 

“Have a little dinner Friday week, and ask young Pillin and the curate.”  He specified the curate, a tee-totaller, because he had two daughters, and males and females must be paired, but he intended to pack him off after dinner to the drawing-room to discuss parish matters while he and Bob Pillin sat over their wine.  What he expected to get out of the young man he did not as yet know.

On the day of the dinner, before departing for the office, he had gone to his cellar.  Would three bottles of Perrier Jouet do the trick, or must he add one of the old Madeira?  He decided to be on the safe side.  A bottle or so of champagne went very little way with him personally, and young Pillin might be another.

The Madeira having done its work by turning the conversation into such an admirable channel, he had cut it short for fear young Pillin might drink the lot or get wind of the rat.  And when his guests were gone, and his family had retired, he stood staring into the fire, putting together the pieces of the puzzle.  Five or six thousand pounds—­six would be ten per cent. on sixty!  Exactly!  Scrivens—­young Pillin had said!  But Crow & Donkin, not Scriven & Coles, were old Heythorp’s solicitors.  What could that mean, save that the old man wanted to cover the tracks of a secret commission, and had handled the matter through solicitors who did not know the state of his affairs!  But why Pillin’s solicitors?  With this sale just going through, it must look deuced fishy to them too.  Was it all a mare’s nest, after all?  In such circumstances he himself would have taken the matter to a London firm who knew nothing of anybody.  Puzzled, therefore, and rather disheartened, feeling too that touch of liver which was wont to follow his old Madeira, he went up to bed and woke his wife to ask her why the dickens they couldn’t always have soup like that!