“It isn’t our job to consider that, sir.  The moral question is only confusing in the matter.  Our job is to make use of the law for the benefit of our client.  That’s what we’re paid for.  That’s the measure of our success or failure.”

Francis nodded.

“Very reasonably put, Fawsitt,” he conceded.  “I’ll give you a letter to Barnes whenever you like.”

“I should be glad if you would do so, sir,” the young man said.  “I’m only wasting my time here ....”

Francis wrote a letter of recommendation to Barnes, the great K.C., considered a stray brief which had found its way in, and strolled up towards the Milan as the hour approached luncheon-time.  In the American bar of that palatial hotel he found the young man he was looking for—­a flaxen-haired youth who was seated upon one of the small tables, with his feet upon a chair, laying down the law to a little group of acquaintances.  He greeted Francis cordially but without that due measure of respect which nineteen should accord to thirty-five.

“Cheerio, my elderly relative!” he exclaimed.  “Have a cocktail.”

Francis nodded assent.

“Come into this corner with me for a moment, Charles,” he invited.  “I have a word for your ear.”

The young man rose and sat by his uncle’s side on a settee.

“In my declining years,” the latter began, “I find myself reverting to the follies of youth.  I require a letter of introduction from you to a young lady of your acquaintance.”

“The devil!  Not one of my own special little pets, I hope?”

“Her name is Miss Daisy Hyslop,” Francis announced.

Lord Charles Southover pursed his lips and whistled.  He glanced at Francis sideways.

“Is this the beginning of a campaign amongst the butterflies,” he enquired, “because, if so, I feel it my duty, uncle, to address to you a few words of solemn warning.  Miss Daisy Hyslop is hot stuff.”

“Look here, young fellow,” Francis said equably, “I don’t know what the state of your exchequer is—­”

“I owe you forty,” Lord Charles interrupted.  “Spring another tenner, make it fifty, that is, and the letter of introduction I will write for you will bring tears of gratitude to your eyes.”

“I’ll spring the tenner,” Francis promised, “but you’ll write just what I tell you—­no more and no less.”

“Anything extra for keeping mum at home?” the young man ventured tentatively.

“You’re a nice sort of nephew to have!” Francis declared.  “Abandon these futile attempts at blackmail and just come this way to the writing-table.”

“You’ve got the tenner with you?” the young man asked anxiously.

Francis produced a well-filled pocketbook.  His nephew led the way to a writing-table, lit a cigarette which he stuck into the corner of his mouth, and in painstaking fashion wrote the few lines which Francis dictated.  The ten pounds changed hands.