led to hearty friendship.  Rolfe had become independent, and was tasting his freedom in a twelvemonth’s travel.  The men came face to face one day on the deck of a steamer at Port Said.  Physically, Rolfe had changed so much that the other had a difficulty in recognising him; morally, the change was not less marked, as Carnaby very soon became aware.  At thirty-seven this process of development was by no means arrested, but its slow and subtle working escaped observation unless it were that of Harvey Rolfe himself.

His guest this evening, in a quiet corner of the dining-room where he generally sat, was a man, ten years his junior, named Morphew:  slim, narrow-shouldered, with sandy hair, and pale, delicate features of more sensibility than intelligence; restless, vivacious, talking incessantly in a low, rapid voice, with frequent nervous laughs which threw back his drooping head.  A difference of costume —­ Rolfe wore morning dress, Morphew the suit of ceremony —­ accentuated the younger man’s advantage in natural and acquired graces; otherwise, they presented the contrast of character and insignificance.  Rolfe had a shaven chin, a weathered complexion, thick brown hair; the penumbra of middle-age had touched his countenance, softening here and there a line which told of temperament in excess.  At this moment his manner inclined to a bluff jocularity, due in some measure to the bottle of wine before him, as also was the tinge of colour upon his cheek; he spoke briefly, but listened with smiling interest to his guest’s continuous talk.  This ran on the subject of the money-market, with which the young man boasted some practical acquaintance.

‘You don’t speculate at all?’ Morphew asked.

‘Shouldn’t know how to go about it,’ replied the other in his deeper note.

’It seems to me to be the simplest thing in the world if one is content with moderate profits.  I’m going in for it seriously —­ cautiously —­ as a matter of business.  I’ve studied the thing —­ got it up as I used to work at something for an exam.  And here, you see, I’ve made five pounds at a stroke —­ five pounds!  Suppose I make that every now and then, it’s worth the trouble, you know —­ it mounts up.  And I shall never stand to lose much.  You see, it’s Tripcony’s interest that I should make profits.’

‘I’m not quite sure of that.’

‘Oh, but it is!  Let me explain —­’

These two had come to know each other under peculiar circumstances a year ago.  Rolfe was at Brussels, staying —­ his custom when abroad —­ at a hotel unfrequented by English folk.  One evening on his return from the theatre, he learnt that a young man of his own nationality lay seriously ill in a room at the top of the house.  Harvey, moved by compassion, visited the unfortunate Englishman, listened to his ravings, and played the part of Good Samaritan.  On recovery, the stranger made full disclosure of his position.  Being at Brussels