’Then I think that the educated man who marries on less than a thousand is either mad or a criminal.’

‘Bosh!  We won’t talk about it.’

They rose, and walked towards the smoking-room, Rolfe giving a nod here and there as he passed acquaintances.  In the hall someone addressed him.

‘How does Carnaby take this affair?’

‘What affair?’

’Don’t you know?  Their house has been robbed —­ stripped.  It’s in the evening papers.’

Rolfe went on into the smoking-room, and read the report of his friend’s misfortune.  The Carnabys occupied a house in Hamilton Terrace.  During their absence from home last night, there had been a clean sweep of all such things of value as could easily be removed.  The disappearance of their housekeeper, and the fact that this woman had contrived the absence of the servants from nine o’clock till midnight, left no mystery in the matter.  The clubmen talked of it with amusement.  Hard lines, to be sure, for Carnaby, and yet harder for his wife, who had lost no end of jewellery; but the thing was so neatly and completely done, one must needs laugh.  One or two husbands who enjoyed the luxury of a housekeeper betrayed their uneasiness.  A discussion arose on the characteristics of housekeepers in general, and spread over the vast subject of domestic management, not often debated at the Metropolitan Club.  In general talk of this kind Rolfe never took part; smoking his pipe, he listened and laughed, and was at moments thoughtful.  Cecil Morphew, rapidly consuming cigarettes as he lay back in a soft chair, pointed the moral of the story in favour of humble domesticity.

In half an hour, his guest having taken leave, Rolfe put on his overcoat, and stepped out into the cold, clammy November night.  He was overtaken by a fellow Metropolitan —­ a grizzled, scraggy-throated, hollow-eyed man, who laid a tremulous hand upon his arm.

‘Excuse me, Mr. Rolfe, have you seen Frothingham recently?’

‘Not for a month.’

’Ah!  I thought perhaps —­ I was wondering what he thought about the
Colebrook smash.  To tell you the truth, I’ve heard unpleasant rumours. 
Do you —­ should you think the Colebrook affair would affect the
“Britannia” in any way?’

It was not the first time that this man had confided his doubts and timidities to Harvey Rolfe; he had a small, but to him important, interest in Bennet Frothingham’s wide-reaching affairs, and seemed to spend most of his time in eliciting opinion on the financier’s stability.

‘Wouldn’t you be much more comfortable,’ said Rolfe, rather bluntly, ’if you had your money in some other kind of security?’

’Ah, but, my dear sir, twelve and a half per cent —­ twelve and a half!  I hold preference shares of the original issue.’

‘Then I’m afraid you must take your chance.’

‘But,’ piped the other in alarm, ‘you don’t mean that —­’