“Now, then, what’s it all about, eh?” Sir Reginald went on severely. “Trying to spoil my night’s rest by committing suicide under my very nose! I call it abominable cheek, sir, and ruddy thoughtless of you, by Jove!”

“I should damn’ well think so,” said Hilary, half sitting, half leaning now against the base of the column, watching them with amusement. He wore a plain dark suit and hat, and no topcoat, and had come to pay his respects to the sphinxes on his way to the club.

The salvaged young man reeled against the nearest pedestal and clung there, silent, his face hidden. Sir Reginald settled his own hat and regarded his catch aggressively.

“Well, what have you got to say for yourself?” he demanded. “Speak up!”

“You don’t expect me to thank you, do you?” muttered the young man without moving.

“No—not yet. Only it would have been cold down there—and horrid wet, you know.” Sir Reginald shivered graphically.

“What’s that to you?”

“Shouldn’t have slept a wink if I hadn’t nabbed you in time!” The young man laughed at this, bitterly, and Sir Reginald took no notice of it. “What’s your name?” he said.

“Does it matter?”

“Not a bit. What’s your name?”

“John Chantrell.”

“Well, Chantrell, what’s the matter with you?” Sir Reginald laid a hand on the bony shoulder nearest him, and was shaken off. “Lost your job?” he inquired briskly.

“Job?” repeated the sullen voice. “Oh, no—if you can call it a job.”

“Girl thrown you over?” suggested Sir Reginald, full of sympathy.

“There isn’t a girl.”

“What, no girl? Tck-tck!” Sir Reginald looked a little incredulous. He cast about in his mind, and tried again triumphantly. “Put your shirt on something that romped in last?”

“No.”

“Well,” said Sir Reginald, reaching for his note-case, “would a fiver see you through? ’Bout all I’ve got on me.”

There was a long silence.

“No, thanks,” said Chantrell, motionless against the pedestal.

“That’s right.” Sir Reginald tucked the thin folded paper into his protégé’s coat pocket. “You have it. I’ve got another at home.”

John Chantrell turned then, braced against the clammy stone, and spoke with biting scorn.

“You haul me down off the parapet—and offer me a five-pound note!” he said.

“Well, I—I—” Sir Reginald thrust a hasty hand into his trousers pocket in search of more.

“You won’t miss it, will you!” John Chantrell accused him, through set teeth. “You’ve had a good dinner. You’ve got a soft bed waiting for you somewhere up West. You pay your tailor when you think of it, and your credit is good when you don’t. You smell of money, and your club, and your claret, and your damned Corona-Coronas—”

With a murmur of apology, Sir Reginald fished out his cigar-case and proffered it. Chantrell waved it away rudely.