Passing down Wardour Street that afternoon, Dick Alford had seen a familiar face. A man came out of a shop with a bundle under his arm, and, recognising the young man, turned on his tracks and walked rapidly away. Dick grinned; there was no mistaking Thomas, and he wondered what was the nature of his purchase.

He glanced at the window of the store and was puzzled; for Thomas did not seem the kind of man who would indulge in the frivolities which were exhibited behind the plate-glass.

Dick was not in any very good spirits. He had made two calls, and on each occasion had suffered a gentle rebuff. He was going now to see his last hope. The big City bank was closed when he arrived, but a porter admitted him to the presence of the old man who had been his father’s best friend. The war had turned plain Mr Jarvis, a country banker of the eighties, into Lord Clanfield, the head of the greatest banking corporation in Europe.

He gave Dick a hearty welcome, for the boy had been a favourite of his.

“Sit ye down, Dick. What has brought you to this square mile of trouble?”

Plainly and briefly Dick stated his business, and Lord Clanfield frowned.

“Fifty thousand pounds, my dear boy! Do you want it for yourself?”

“No, I want it for a very dear friend of mine.” It required an effort to describe Arthur in these flattering terms. “He has got into a scrape.”

His lordship shook his head.

“It couldn’t be done, Dick. If it was for you, to get you out of a scrape – but then, you’re not the kind of lad who’d ever get into one – I’d give it to you out of my own pocket.”

“You couldn’t lend it to me on my personal security?”

The banker smiled.

“Lending it to you, Dick, would be giving it to you! What chance have you of repaying fifty thousand pounds? A second son! Harry is marrying this year, and there will be an heir to the estate next year! No, no, old boy, it would be impossible.”

Then, in his desperation, Dick Alford told the story, suppressing only the names. The old man listened with a grave face.