He turned suddenly white. “Good God!” he cried, “are you the man in the telephone?”
I nodded.
“Well, well!” said he. “It would take a good deal of magnanimity to forgive you that. What nights I have passed! That little whisper has whistled in my ear ever since, like the wind in a keyhole. Who could it be? What could it mean? I suppose I have had more real, solid misery out of that ...” He paused, and looked troubled. “Though I had more to bother me, or ought to have,” he added, and slowly emptied his glass.
“It seems we were born to drive each other crazy with conundrums,” said I. “I have often thought my head would split.”
Carthew burst into his foolish laugh. “And yet neither you nor I had the worst of the puzzle,” he cried. “There were others deeper in.”
“And who were they?” I asked.
“The underwriters,” said he.
“Why, to be sure!” cried I, “I never thought of that. What could they make of it?”
“Nothing,” replied Carthew. “It couldn't be explained. They were a crowd of small dealers at Lloyd's who took it up in syndicate; one of them has a carriage now; and people say he is a deuce of a deep fellow, and has the makings of a great financier. Another furnished a small villa on the profits. But they're all hopelessly muddled; and when they meet each other, they don't know where to look, like the Augurs.”
Dinner was no sooner at an end than he carried me across the road to Masson's old studio. It was strangely changed. On the walls were tapestry, a few good etchings, and some amazing pictures—a Rousseau, a Corot, a really superb old Crome, a Whistler, and a piece which my host claimed (and I believe) to be a Titian. The room was furnished with comfort-
