Mr. Samuel Weatherley, sole proprietor of the firm of Samuel
Weatherley & Co., wholesale provision merchants, of Tooley Street,
London, paused suddenly on his way from his private office to the
street. There was something which until that second had entirely
slipped his memory. It was not his umbrella, for that, neatly tucked
up, was already under his arm. Nor was it the _Times_, for that,
together with the supplement, was sticking out of his overcoat
pocket, the shape of which it completely ruined. As a matter of
fact, it was more important than either of these--it was a
commission from his wife.

Very slowly he retraced his steps until he stood outside the
glass-enclosed cage where twelve of the hardest-worked clerks in
London bent over their ledgers and invoicing. With his forefinger--a
fat, pudgy forefinger--he tapped upon a pane of glass, and an
anxious errand boy bolted through the doorway.

"Tell Mr. Jarvis to step this way," his employer ordered.

Mr. Jarvis heard the message and came hurrying out. He was an
undersized man, with somewhat prominent eyes concealed by
gold-rimmed spectacles. He was possessed of extraordinary talents
with regard to the details of the business, and was withal an expert
and careful financier. Hence his hold upon the confidence of his
employer.

The latter addressed him with a curious and altogether unusual
hesitation in his manner.

"Mr. Jarvis," he began, "there is a matter--a little matter--upon