Seated with his wife at breakfast on the veranda which overlooked the
rolling lawns and leafy woods of his charming Sussex home, Geoffrey
Windlebird, the great financier, was enjoying the morning sun to the
full. His chubby features were relaxed in a smile of lazy contentment;
and his wife, who liked to act sometimes as his secretary, found it
difficult to get him to pay any attention to his morning's mail.

"There's a column in to-day's _Financial Argus_," she said, "of which you
really must take notice. It's most abusive. It's about the Wildcat
Reef. They assert that there never was any gold in the mine, and that
you knew it when you floated the company."

"They will have their little joke."

"But you had the usual mining-expert's report."

"Of course we had. And a capital report it was. I remember thinking at
the time what a neat turn of phrase the fellow had. I admit he depended
rather on his fine optimism than on any examination of the mine. As a
matter of fact, he never went near it. And why should he? It's down in
South America somewhere. Awful climate--snakes, mosquitoes,
revolutions, fever."

Mr. Windlebird spoke drowsily. His eyes closed.

"Well, the Argus people say that they have sent a man of their own out
there to make inquiries, a well-known expert, and the report will be in
within the next fortnight. They say they will publish it in their next
number but one. What are you going to do about it?"