then, being a practical man, knowing, as he frequently contended, how to get at the root of things, he touched an electric button on his desk. A young woman entered, whose fine, large eyes, turned on her employer, showed some trace of fear.
"Where have I seen the name of Stranleigh—S-t-r-a-n-l-e-i-g-h?" he demanded.
"Perhaps you mean Lord Stranleigh of Wychwood," replied the girl.
"That's it—that's the name. What did he do? He did something a while ago."
"He is said to have made a hundred millions' profit on the rise of stocks after the Bank crisis."
"Oh, I say!" protested Lord Stranleigh, "it was nearer two hundred and fifty millions."
"What!" roared Brassard, "are you Lord Stranleigh of Wychwood?"
"My dear sir, you need not express surprise at that. I never denied it."
The large-eyed girl turned her frightened looks on the unperturbed young man.
"Here, clear out," stammered her employer; whereupon she instantly disappeared the way she came. Brassard, with his hands thrust deep into his trousers' pockets, his massive head bowed, his brow bent, now strode up and down the room, and Stranleigh noted with some satisfaction that his conjecture regarding the shortness of his legs was confirmed.
