Ellen stared at him for a moment.

“I don’t follow you,” she declared, brusquely, “and I don’t know as I want to.  About that advertisement, is it you, Alfred, who’s to be one of the directors of this Menatogen or whatever they call it?  Are they your experiences that are given here?”

“They are!” Burton groaned.

Mr. Waddington, with a heavy frown, took the paper.

“What is this, Burton?” he demanded.

“You had better read it,” Burton replied, sinking into a chair.  “I mentioned it to you a little time ago.  You see, the scheme has finally come to fruition.”

Mr. Waddington read the advertisement through, word by word.  One gathered that the greatest discovery for many thousands of years would shortly be announced to the world.  A certified and unfailing tonic for the moral system was shortly to be placed upon the market.  A large factory had been engaged for the manufacture of the new commodity, and distributing warehouses in a central neighborhood.  First come, first served.  Ten and sixpence a jar.  The paper fluttered out of Mr. Waddington’s fingers.  He looked across at Burton.  Burton sank forward in his chair, his head fell into his hands.

“What I want to know,” Ellen continued, in a tone of some excitement, “is—­what is there coming to us for this?  I never did give you credit, Alfred—­not in these days, at any rate—­for so much common sense.  I see they have made you a director.  If there’s anything in those rotten beans of yours, you’ve more in your head than I thought, to be trying to make a bit of use of them.  What are you getting out of it?”

There was a dead silence.  Mr. Waddington had the appearance of a man who has received a shock.  Burton withdrew his hands from before his face.  He was looking pale and miserable.

“I am getting money,” he admitted slowly.  “I am getting a great deal of money.”

Ellen nodded.  Her face betokened the liveliest interest.  Mr. Waddington sat like a musician listening to an ill-played rendering of his favorite melody.  Burton thrust his hand into his pocket.

“I failed to send you your three pounds on Saturday, Ellen,” he said.  “Here are thirty—­three hundred, if you will.  Take them and leave me for a little time.”

It is not too much to say that Ellen grabbed at the notes.  She counted them carefully and thrust them into her reticule.  Her manner was indicating a change.  The hard contempt had gone from her face.  She looked at her husband with something like awe.  After all, this was the signal and final proof of greatness—­he had made money!

“Aren’t you pleased about it?” she asked sharply.  “Not that I ever thought you’d have the wits to turn anything like this into real, solid account!”

Burton set his teeth.

“I am afraid,” he said, “that I cannot quite explain how I feel about it.  There will be plenty of money for you—­for some time, at any rate.  You can buy the house, if you like, or buy one somewhere else.”