Sylvanus Heythorp seldom went to bed before one or rose before eleven. The latter habit alone kept his valet from handing in the resignation which the former habit prompted almost every night.

Propped on his pillows in a crimson dressing-gown, and freshly shaved, he looked more Roman than he ever did, except in his bath. Having disposed of coffee, he was wont to read his letters, and The Morning Post, for he had always been a Tory, and could not stomach paying a halfpenny for his news. Not that there were many letters—when a man has reached the age of eighty, who should write to him, except to ask for money?

It was Valentine's Day. Through his bedroom window he could see the trees of the park, where the birds were in song, though he could not hear them. He had never been interested in Nature—full-blooded men with short necks seldom are.

This morning indeed there were two letters, and he opened that which smelt of something. Inside was a thing like a Christmas card, save that the naked babe had in his hands a bow and arrow, and words coming out of his mouth: “To be your Valentine.” There was also a little pink note with one blue forget-me-not printed at the top. It ran:

“DEAREST GUARDY,—I'm sorry this is such a mangy little valentine; I couldn't go out to get it because I've got a beastly cold, so I asked Jock, and the pig bought this. The satin is simply scrumptious. If you don't come and see me in it some time soon, I shall come and show it to you. I wish I had a moustache, because my top lip feels just like a matchbox, but it's rather ripping having breakfast in bed. Mr. Pillin's taking us to the theatre the day after to-morrow evening. Isn't it nummy! I'm going to have rum and honey for my cold.

“Good-bye,

“Your PHYLLIS.”

So this that quivered in his thick fingers, too insensitive to feel it, was a valentine for him!

Forty years ago that young thing's grandmother had given him his last. It made him out a very old chap! Forty years ago! Had that been himself living then? And himself, who, as a youth came on the town in 'forty-five? Not a thought, not a feeling the same! They said you changed your body every seven years. The mind with it, too, perhaps! Well, he had come to the last of his bodies, now! And that holy woman had been urging him to take it to Bath, with her face as long as a tea-tray, and some gammon from that doctor of his. Too full a habit—dock his port—no alcohol—might go off in a coma any night! Knock off not he! Rather die any day than turn tee-totaller! When a man had nothing left in life except his dinner, his bottle, his cigar, and the dreams they gave him—these doctors forsooth must want to cut them off! No, no! Carpe diem! while you lived, get something out of it. And now that he had made all the provision he could for those youngsters, his life was no good to any one but himself; and the sooner he went off the better, if he ceased to enjoy what there was left, or lost the power to say: “I'll do this and that, and you be jiggered!” Keep a stiff lip until you crashed, and then go clean! He sounded the bell beside him twice-for Molly, not his man. And when the girl came in, and stood, pretty in her print frock, her fluffy over-fine dark hair escaping from under her cap, he gazed at her in silence.

“Yes, sirr?”

“Want to look at you, that's all.”

“Oh I an' I'm not tidy, sirr.”

“Never mind. Had your valentine?”

“No, sirr; who would send me one, then?”

“Haven't you a young man?”

“Well, I might. But he's over in my country.

“What d'you think of this?”

He held out the little boy.

The girl took the card and scrutinised it reverently; she said in a detached voice:

“Indeed, an' ut's pretty, too.”

“Would you like it?”

“Oh I if 'tis not taking ut from you.”

Old Heythorp shook his head, and pointed to the dressing-table.

“Over there—you'll find a sovereign. Little present for a good girl.”

She uttered a deep sigh. “Oh! sirr, 'tis too much; 'tis kingly.”

“Take it.”

She took it, and came back, her hands clasping the sovereign and the valentine, in an attitude as of prayer.

The old man's gaze rested on her with satisfaction.

“I like pretty faces—can't bear sour ones. Tell Meller to get my bath ready.”

When she had gone he took up the other letter—some lawyer's writing, and opening it with the usual difficulty, read:

“February 13, 1905.

“SIR,—Certain facts having come to my knowledge, I deem it my duty to call a special meeting of the shareholders of 'The Island Navigation Coy.,' to consider circumstances in connection with the purchase of Mr. Joseph Pillin's fleet. And I give you notice that at this meeting your conduct will be called in question.

“I am, Sir,

“Yours faithfully,

“CHARLES VENTNOR. “SYLVANUS HEYTHORP,ESQ.”

Having read this missive, old Heythorp remained some minutes without stirring. Ventnor! That solicitor chap who had made himself unpleasant at the creditors' meetings!

There are men whom a really bad bit of news at once stampedes out of all power of coherent thought and action, and men who at first simply do not take it in. Old Heythorp took it in fast enough; coming from a lawyer it was about as nasty as it could be. But, at once, with stoic wariness his old brain began casting round. What did this fellow really know? And what exactly could he do? One thing was certain; even if he knew everything, he couldn't upset that settlement. The youngsters were all right. The old man grasped the fact that only his own position was at stake. But this was enough in all conscience; a name which had been before the public fifty odd years—income, independence, more perhaps. It would take little, seeing his age and feebleness, to make his Companies throw him over. But what had the fellow got hold of? How decide whether or no to take notice; to let him do his worst, or try and get into touch with him? And what was the fellow's motive? He held ten shares! That would never make a man take all this trouble, and over a purchase which was really first-rate business for the Company. Yes! His conscience was quite clean. He had not betrayed his Company—on the contrary, had done it a good turn, got them four sound ships at a low price—against much opposition. That he might have done the Company a better turn, and got the ships at fifty-four thousand, did not trouble him—the six thousand was a deuced sight better employed; and he had not pocketed a penny piece himself! But the fellow's motive? Spite? Looked like it. Spite, because he had been disappointed of his money, and defied into the bargain! H'm! If that were so, he might still be got to blow cold again. His eyes lighted on the pink note with the blue forget-me-not. It marked as it were the high water mark of what was left to him of life; and this other letter in his hand-by Jove! Low water mark! And with a deep and rumbling sigh he thought: 'No, I'm not going to be beaten by this fellow.'

“Your bath is ready, sir.”

Crumpling the two letters into the pocket of his dressing-gown, he said:

“Help me up; and telephone to Mr. Farney to be good enough to come round.” ....

An hour later, when the secretary entered, his chairman was sitting by the fire perusing the articles of association. And, waiting for him to look up, watching the articles shaking in that thick, feeble hand, the secretary had one of those moments of philosophy not too frequent with his kind. Some said the only happy time of life was when you had no passions, nothing to hope and live for. But did you really ever reach such a stage? The old chairman, for instance, still had his passion for getting his own way, still had his prestige, and set a lot of store by it! And he said:

“Good morning, sir; I hope you're all right in this east wind. The purchase is completed.”

“Best thing the company ever did. Have you heard from a shareholder called Ventnor. You know the man I mean?”

“No, sir. I haven't.”

“Well! You may get a letter that'll make you open your eyes. An impudent scoundrel! Just write at my dictation.”

“February 14th, 1905.

“CHARLES VENTNOR, Esq.

“SIR,—I have your letter of yesterday's date, the contents of which I am at a loss to understand. My solicitors will be instructed to take the necessary measures.”

'Phew What's all this about?' the secretary thought.

“Yours truly....”

“I'll sign.” And the shaky letters closed the page: “SYLVANUS HEYTHORP.”

“Post that as you go.”

“Anything else I can do for you, sir?”

“Nothing, except to let me know if you hear from this fellow.”

When the secretary had gone the old man thought: 'So! The ruffian hasn't called the meeting yet. That'll bring him round here fast enough if it's his money he wants-blackmailing scoundrel!'

“Mr. Pillin, sir; and will you wait lunch, or will you have it in the dining-room?”

“In the dining-room.”

At sight of that death's-head of a fellow, old Heythorp felt a sort of pity. He looked bad enough already—and this news would make him look worse. Joe Pillin glanced round at the two closed doors.

“How are you, Sylvanus? I'm very poorly.” He came closer, and lowered his voice: “Why did you get me to make that settlement? I must have been mad. I've had a man called Ventnor—I didn't like his manner. He asked me if I knew a Mrs. Larne.”

“Ha! What did you say?”

“What could I say? I don't know her. But why did he ask?”

“Smells a rat.”

Joe Pillin grasped the edge of the table with both hands.

“Oh!” he murmured. “Oh! don't say that!”

Old Heythorp held out to him the crumpled letter.

When he had read it Joe Pillin sat down abruptly before the fire.

“Pull yourself together, Joe; they can't touch you, and they can't upset either the purchase or the settlement. They can upset me, that's all.”

Joe Pillin answered, with trembling lips:

“How you can sit there, and look the same as ever! Are you sure they can't touch me?”

Old Heyworth nodded grimly.

“They talk of an Act, but they haven't passed it yet. They might prove a breach of trust against me. But I'll diddle them. Keep your pecker up, and get off abroad.”

“Yes, yes. I must. I'm very bad. I was going to-morrow. But I don't know, I'm sure, with this hanging over me. My son knowing her makes it worse. He picks up with everybody. He knows this man Ventnor too. And I daren't say anything to Bob. What are you thinking of, Sylvanus? You look very funny!”

Old Heythorp seemed to rouse himself from a sort of coma.

“I want my lunch,” he said. “Will you stop and have some?”

Joe Pillin stammered out:

“Lunch! I don't know when I shall eat again. What are you going to do, Sylvanus?”

“Bluff the beggar out of it.”

“But suppose you can't?”

“Buy him off. He's one—of my creditors.”

Joe Pillin stared at him afresh. “You always had such nerve,” he said yearningly. “Do you ever wake up between two and four? I do—and everything's black.”

“Put a good stiff nightcap on, my boy, before going to bed.”

“Yes; I sometimes wish I was less temperate. But I couldn't stand it. I'm told your doctor forbids you alcohol.”

“He does. That's why I drink it.”

Joe Pillin, brooding over the fire, said: “This meeting—d'you think they mean to have it? D'you think this man really knows? If my name gets into the newspapers—” but encountering his old friend's deep little eyes, he stopped. “So you advise me to get off to-morrow, then?”

Old Heythorp nodded.

“Your lunch is served, sir.”

Joe Pillin started violently, and rose.

“Well, good-bye, Sylvanus-good-bye! I don't suppose I shall be back till the summer, if I ever come back!” He sank his voice: “I shall rely on you. You won't let them, will you?”

Old Heythorp lifted his hand, and Joe Pillin put into that swollen shaking paw his pale and spindly fingers. “I wish I had your pluck,” he said sadly. “Good-bye, Sylvanus,” and turning, he passed out.

Old Heythorp thought: 'Poor shaky chap. All to pieces at the first shot!' And, going to his lunch, ate more heavily than usual.