mine is occasionally useful.'

Logan was tall, dark, athletic and indolent. He was, in a way, the last
of an historic Scottish family, and rather fond of discoursing on the
ancestral traditions. But any satisfaction that he derived from them
was, so far, all that his birth had won for him. His little patrimony
had taken to itself wings. Merton was in no better case. Both, as they
sat together, were gloomily discussing their prospects.

In the penumbra of smoke, and the malignant light of an ill trimmed lamp,
the Great Idea was to be evolved. What consequences hung on the Great
Idea! The peace of families insured, at a trifling premium. Innocence
rescued. The defeat of the subtlest criminal designers: undreamed of
benefits to natural science! But I anticipate. We return to the
conversation in the Ryder Street den.

'It is a case of emigration or the workhouse,' said Logan.

'Emigration! What can you or I do in the Colonies? They provide even
their own ushers. My only available assets, a little Greek and less
Latin, are drugs in the Melbourne market,' answered Merton; 'they breed
their own dominies. Protection!'

'In America they might pay for lessons in the English accent . . . ' said
Logan.

'But not,' said Merton, 'in the Scotch, which is yours; oh distant cousin
of a marquis! Consequently by rich American lady pupils "you are not one
to be desired."'