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Mr. Bruce Bowring, managing director of the Consolidated Mining and InvestmentCorporation, Limited (capital two millions, in one-pound shares, which stood attwenty-seven-and-six), turned and gazed querulously across the electric-lit spacesof his superb private office at the confidential clerk who addressed him. Mr.Bowring, in shirt-sleeves before a Florentine mirror, was brushing his hair with thesolicitude of a mother who has failed to rear most of a large family. Who is it? he asked, as if that demand for him were the last straw but one. Nearlyseven on Friday evening! he added, martyrised. I think a friend, sir. The middle-aged financier dropped his gold-mounted brush and, wading throughthe deep pile of the Oriental carpet, passed into the telephone-cabinet and shut thedoor. Hallo! he accosted the transmitter, resolved not to be angry with it. Hallo! Areyou there? Yes, I'm Bowring. Who are you? Nrrrr, the faint, unhuman voice of the receiver whispered in his ear. Nrrrr. Cluck.I'm a friend. What name? No name. I thought you might like to know that a determined robbery is going tobe attempted to-night at your house in Lowndes Square, a robbery of cash-andbefore nine o'clock. Nrrrr. I thought you might like to know.

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