Cecil Morphew, though differing in all other respects from Hugh Carnaby, showed a face which, like Hugh’s, was growing prematurely old; a fatigued complexion, sunken eyes; an expression mingled of discontent and eagerness, now furtive, now sanguine, yet losing the worse traits in a still youthful smile as he came forward to meet his friend.  Year after year he clung to the old amorous hope, but he no longer spoke of it with the same impulsive frankness; he did not shun the subject —­ brought it, indeed, voluntarily forward, but with a shamefaced hesitance.  His declaration in a letter, not long ago, that he was unworthy of any good woman’s love, pointed to something which had had its share in the obvious smirching of his character; something common enough, no doubt; easily divined by Harvey Rolfe, though he could not learn how far the man’s future was compromised.  Today Morphew began with talk of a hopeful tenor.  He had got hold of a little money; he had conceived a project for making more.  When the progress of their eating and drinking cleared the way for confidential disclosures, Morphew began to hint at his scheme.

‘You’ve heard me speak of Denbow?’ This was a man who had given him lessons in photography; a dealer in photographic apparatus, with a shop in Westminster Bridge Road.  ’He’s a very decent fellow, but it’s all up with him.  His wife drinks, and he has lost money in betting, and now he wants to clear out —­ to sell his business and get away.  He came to me to apologise for spoiling some negatives —­ he does a little printing for me now and then and told me what he meant to do.  Did I know of anyone likely to take his shop?’

Harvey laughed.

‘You’re in with a queer lot of people, it seems to me.’

’Oh, Denbow is all but a gentleman, I assure you.  He was educated at Charterhouse, but made a fool of himself, I believe, in the common way.  But about his business.  I’ve seen a good deal of it, going in and out, and talking with them, and I know as much about photography as most amateurs —­ you’ll admit that, Rolfe?’

It was true that he had attained more than ordinary skill with the camera.  Indeed, but for this resource, happily discovered in the days of his hopelessness, he would probably have sunk out of sight before now.

’Denbow’s salesman is a thoroughly honest and capable fellow —­ Hobcraft, his name.  He’s been at the shop three or four years, and would be only too glad to carry on the business, but he can’t raise money, and Denbow must have cash down.  Now the fact is, I want to buy that business myself.’

‘I see.  What does the man ask for it?’

Morphew fidgeted a little.