from the window of the morning-room, where he had just finished
breakfast, he had an uninterrupted view of valley, town, and harbor--a
two-mile riot of green, gold and white, and beyond the white the blue
satin of the Mediterranean. Mr. Scobell did not read poetry except that
which advertised certain breakfast foods in which he was interested, or
he might have been reminded of the Island of Flowers in Tennyson's
"Voyage of Maeldive." Violets, pinks, crocuses, yellow and purple
mesembryanthemum, lavender, myrtle, and rosemary ... his two-mile view
contained them all. The hillside below him was all aglow with the
yellow fire of the mimosa. But his was not one of those emotional
natures to which the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that
do often lie too deep for tears. A primrose by the river's brim a
simple primrose was to him--or not so much a simple primrose, perhaps,
as a basis for a possible Primrosina, the Soap that Really Cleans You.

He was a nasty little man to hold despotic sway over such a Paradise: a
goblin in Fairyland. Somewhat below the middle height, he was lean of
body and vulturine of face. He had a greedy mouth, a hooked nose,
liquid green eyes and a sallow complexion. He was rarely seen without a
half-smoked cigar between his lips. This at intervals he would relight,
only to allow it to go out again; and when, after numerous fresh
starts, it had dwindled beyond the limits of convenience, he would
substitute another from the reserve supply that protruded from his
vest-pocket.

* * * * *

How Benjamin Scobell had discovered the existence of Mervo is not
known. It lay well outside the sphere of the ordinary financier. But
Mr. Scobell took a pride in the versatility of his finance. It