ceremony, and flung himself down on a chair near the window.

'Fire!' said Billy, on seeing this abrupt entry; 'how's your
mother!--Ballarat and Bendigo--Bendigo and Ballarat.'

The newcomer was a man short and powerfully built, dressed in a
shabby-genteel sort of way, with a massive head covered with black
hair, heavy side whiskers and moustache, and a clean shaved chin,
which had that blue appearance common to very dark men who shave.
His mouth--that is, as much as could be seen of it under the
drooping moustache--was weak and undecided, and his dark eyes so
shifty and restless that they seemed unable to meet a steady gaze,
but always looked at some inanimate object that would not stare them
out of countenance.

'Well, Mr Randolph Villiers,' croaked Slivers, after contemplating
his visitor for a few moments, 'how's business?'

'Infernally bad,' retorted Mr Villiers, pulling out a cigar and
lighting it. 'I've lost twenty pounds on those Moscow shares.'

'More fool you,' replied Slivers, courteously, swinging round in his
chair so as to face Villiers. 'I could have told you the mine was no
good; but you will go on your own bad judgment.'

'It's like getting blood out of a stone to get tips from you,'
growled Villiers, with a sulky air. 'Come now, old boy,' in a
cajoling manner, 'tell us something good--I'm nearly stone broke,
and I must live.'