last adieu.

The African merchant kept his appointment in the City, but long before
he reached it John Harston had gone also to keep that last terrible
appointment of which the messenger is death.



CHAPTER II.


CHARITY A LA MODE.

It was a dull October morning in Fenchurch Street, some weeks after the
events with which our story opened. The murky City air looked murkier
still through the glazed office windows. Girdlestone, grim and grey, as
though he were the very embodiment of the weather, stooped over his
mahogany table. He had a long list in front of him, on which he was
checking off, as a prelude to the day's work, the position in the market
of the various speculations in which the capital of the firm was
embarked. His son Ezra lounged in an easy chair opposite him, looking
dishevelled and dark under the eyes, for he had been up half the night,
and the Nemesis of reaction was upon him.

"Faugh!" his father ejaculated, glancing round at him with disgust.
"You have been drinking already this morning."

"I took a brandy and seltzer on the way to the office," he answered
carelessly. "I needed one to steady me."