“I’m sure of it, up to the present.  Of course there might be an accident, but with him and Mrs. Wiles both off the premises at night, it’s hardly likely; and I never let the bag out of my sight while it’s in the room with them, hardly out of my hand.”

“I should like to trust him, but it’s hardly fair to put such a strain on his loyalty.”

“Much safer not, sir, as long as we’re not driven to it.  After all though, I believe the fellow is out to redeem his character, his isn’t an unblemished record.”

“But the work, the physical labor, entailed on you, Hector!”

“Make yourself easy about that, sir.  I’m as strong as a horse.  The work’s good for me.  Remember I’ve had four years’ service.”

Mr. Saffron smiled pensively.  “It would have been funny if we’d met over there!  You and I!”

“It would, sir,” laughed Beaumaroy.  “But that could hardly have happened without some very curious accident.”

The old man harked back.  “Yes, a few more good consignments, and we can think in earnest of your start.”  He was warming his hands, thin yellowish hands, at the fire now, and his gaze was directed into it.  Looking down on him, Beaumaroy allowed a smile to appear on his lips, a queer smile, which seemed to be compounded of affection, pity, and amusement.

“The difficulties there remain considerable for the present,” he remarked.

“They must be overcome.”  Once again the old man’s voice became sharp and even dictatorial.

“They shall be, sir, depend on it.”  Beaumaroy’s air was suddenly confident, almost braggart.  Mr. Saffron nodded approvingly.  “But, anyhow, I can’t very well start till favorable news comes from—­”

“Hush!” There was a knock on the door.

“Mrs. Wiles, to lay the table, I suppose.”

“Yes!  Come in!” He added hastily to Beaumaroy, in an undertone.  “Yes, we must wait for that.”

Mrs. Wiles entered as he spoke.  She was a colorless, negative kind of a woman, fair, fat, flabby, and forty or thereabouts.  She had been the ill-used slave of a local carpenter, now deceased by reason of over-drinking; her nature was to be the slave of the nearest male creature, not from affection (her affections were anemic) but rather, as it seemed, from an instinctive desire to shuffle off from herself any responsibility.  But, at all events, she was entirely free from Miss Delia Wall’s proclivity.

Mr. Saffron rose.  “I’ll go and wash my hands.  We’ll dine just as we are, Hector.”  Beaumaroy opened the door for him; he acknowledged the attention with a little nod, and passed out to the staircase in the narrow passage.  Beaumaroy appeared to consider himself absolved from any preparation, for he returned to the big chair and, sinking into it, lit another cigarette.  Meanwhile Mrs. Wiles laid the table, and presently Sergeant Hooper appeared with a bottle of golden-tinted wine.

“That, at least, is the real stuff,” thought Beaumaroy as he eyed it in pleasurable anticipation.  “Where the dear old man got it, I don’t know; but in itself it’s almost worth all the racket.”