Torpenhow watched Dick's face and whistled.

Dick walked up and down, thinking. He saw the whole of his little stock
in trade, the first weapon of his equipment, annexed at the outset of his
campaign by an elderly gentleman whose name Dick had not caught
aright, who said that he represented a syndicate, which was a thing for
which Dick had not the least reverence. The injustice of the proceedings
did not much move him; he had seen the strong hand prevail too often in
other places to be squeamish over the moral aspects of right and wrong.

But he ardently desired the blood of the gentleman in the frockcoat, and
when he spoke again, and when he spoke again it was with a strained
sweetness that Torpenhow knew well for the beginning of strife.

'Forgive me, sir, but you have no--no younger man who can arrange this
business with me?'

'I speak for the syndicate. I see no reason for a third party to----'

'You will in a minute. Be good enough to give back my sketches.'

The man stared blankly at Dick, and then at Torpenhow, who was
leaning against the wall. He was not used to ex-employees who ordered
him to be good enough to do things.

'Yes, it is rather a cold-blooded steal,' said Torpenhow, critically; 'but
I'm afraid, I am very much afraid, you've struck the wrong man. Be
careful, Dick; remember, this isn't the Soudan.'