Lewis nodded.

"Well, that chap got through twenty thousand a year,--pounds, not
dollars,--capital and income, in just five years. After that he starved.
I know a man that lent him half a crown. The borrower said he'd live on
it for a week. Then he found out that, despite being a gentleman, there
was one little thing he could do well. He could make a roast duck fall
apart as though by magic, and he could handle a full-sized carving-knife
with the ease and the grace of a duchess handling a fan. Wow he's
getting eight hundred a year--pounds again--and all he can eat."

From the eating-house Leighton took Lewis to his club. He sought out a
small room that is called the smoking-room to this day, relic of an age
when smokers were still a race apart. In the corner sat an old man
reading. He was neatly dressed in black. Beside him was a decanter of
port.

Leighton led the way back to the lounge-room.

"Well, did you see him?"

"The old man?" said Lewis. "Yes, I saw him."

"That's Old Ivory," said Leighton. "He's an honorable. He was cursed by
the premature birth--to him--of several brothers. In other words, he's
that saddest of British institutions, a younger son. His brothers, the
other younger sons, are still eating out of the hand of their eldest
brother, Lord Bellim. But not Old Ivory. He bought himself an annuity
ten years ago. How did he do it? Well, he had enough intelligence to