“I fear that for once you have undertaken a task beyond your ability, Captain Paul,” was the rather tart reply.

“The captain has a ridiculous idea that he is the cause of my going,” I said quickly.

John Paul rose somewhat abruptly, seized his hat and bowed to his Lordship, and in the face of a rain sallied out, remarking that he had as yet seen nothing of the city.

“Jack, you must do me the favour not to talk of this in John Paul’s presence,” I said, when the door had closed.

“If he doesn’t suspect why you are going, he has more stupidity than I gave him credit for,” Comyn answered gruffly.

“I fear he does suspect,” I said.

His Lordship went to the table and began to write, leaving me to the Chronicle, the pages of which I did not see.  Then came Mr. Dix, and such a change I had never beheld in mortal man.  In place of the would-be squire I had encountered in Threadneedle Street, here was an unctuous person of business in sober gray; but he still wore the hypocritical smirk with no joy in it.  His bow was now all respectful obedience.  Comyn acknowledged it with a curt nod.

Mr. Dix began smoothly, where a man of more honesty would have found the going difficult.

“Mr. Carvel,” he said, rubbing his hands, “I wish first to express my profound regrets for what has happened.”

“Curse your regrets,” said Comyn, bluntly.  “You come here on business.  Mr. Carvel does not stand in need of regrets at present.”

“I was but on the safe side of Mr. Carvel’s money, my Lord.”

“Ay, I’ll warrant you are always on the safe side of money,” replied Comyn, with a laugh.  “What I wish to know, Mr. Dix,” he continued, “is whether you are willing to take my word that this is Mr. Richard Carvel, the grandson and heir of Lionel Carvel, Esquire, of Carvel Hall in Maryland?”

“I am your Lordship’s most obedient servant,” said Mr. Dix.

“Confound you, sir!  Can you or can you not answer a simple question?”

Mr. Dix straightened.  He may have spoken elsewhere of asserting his dignity.

“I would not presume to doubt your Lordship’s word.”

“Then, if I were to be personally responsible for such sums as Mr. Carvel may need, I suppose you would be willing to advance them to him.”

“Willingly, willingly, my Lord,” said Mr. Dix, and added immediately:  “Your Lordship will not object to putting that in writing?  Merely a matter of form, as your Lordship knows, but we men of affairs are held to a strict accountability.”

Comyn made a movement of disgust, took up a pen and wrote out the indorsement.

“There,” he said.  “You men of affairs will at least never die of starvation.”

Mr. Dix took the paper with a low bow, began to shower me with protestations of his fidelity to my grandfather’s interests, which were one day to be my own,—­he hoped, with me, not soon,—­drew from his pocket more than sufficient for my immediate wants, said that I should have more by a trusty messenger, and was going on to clear himself of his former neglect and indifference, when Banks announced: