The acquisition of West End premises presented no particular difficulty, and in a few weeks’ time behold a transformed and glorified Jacob Pratt, seated in a cushioned swivel chair before a roll-top desk, in an exceedingly handsomely appointed office overlooking Waterloo Place. The summit of one of his ambitions had been easily gained. The cut of his black morning coat and neat grey trousers, the patent shoes and spats, his irreproachable linen, and the modest but beautiful pearl pin which reposed in his satin tie were indications of thoughtful and well-directed hours spent in the very Mecca of a man’s sartorial ambitions. Standing by his side, with a packet of correspondence in his hand, Dauncey, in his sober, dark serge suit, presented a very adequate representation of the part of confidential assistant and secretary to a financial magnate.

“Nothing but begging letters again this morning,” he announced; “four hospitals; the widow of an officer, still young, who desires a small loan and would prefer a personal interview; and the daughter of a rural dean down in the country, pining for London life, and only wanting a start in any position where good looks, an excellent figure, and a bright and loving disposition would be likely to meet with their due reward.”

“Hm!” Jacob muttered. “Pitch ’em into the waste-paper basket.”

“There are a packet of prospectuses—”

“Send them along, too.”

“And a proposal from a Mr. Poppleton Watts that you should endow a national theatre, for which he offers himself as actor manager. You provide the cash, and he takes the whole responsibility off your shoulders. The letter is dated from the Corn Exchange, Market Harborough.”

“Scrap him with the rest,” Jacob directed, leaning back in his chair. “Anything more you want for the place, Dick?”

The two men looked around. There were rows of neatly arranged files, all empty; an unused typewriter; a dictaphone and telephone. The outer office, where Dauncey spent much of his time, was furnished with the same quiet elegance as the inner apartment. There seemed to be nothing lacking.

“A larger waste-paper basket is the only thing I can suggest,” Dauncey observed drily.

Then came the sound for which, with different degrees of interest, both men had been waiting since the opening of the offices a fortnight before. There was a tap at the outer door, the sound of a bell and footsteps in the passage. Dauncey hurried out, closing the door of the private office behind him. His chief drew a packet of papers from a receptacle in his desk, forced a frown on to his smooth forehead, and buried himself in purposeless calculations.

Dauncey confronted the visitors. There were two of them—one whose orientalism of speech and features was unsuccessfully camouflaged by the splendour of his city attire, the other a rather burly, middle-aged man, in a worn tweed suit, carrying a bowler hat, with no gloves, and having the general appearance of a builder or tradesman of some sort. His companion took the lead.

“Is Mr. Jacob Pratt in?” he enquired.

“Mr. Pratt is in but very busy,” Dauncey answered doubtfully. “Have you an appointment?”

“We have not, but we are willing to await Mr. Pratt’s convenience,” was the eager reply. “Will you be so good as to take in my card? Mr. Montague, my name is—Mr. Dane Montague.”

Dauncey accepted the mission after a little hesitation, knocked reverently at the door of the inner office, and went in on tiptoe, closing the door behind him. He presented the card to Jacob, who was busily engaged in polishing the tip of one of his patent shoes with a fragment of blotting paper.

“A full-blown adventure,” he announced. “A man who looks like a money-lender, and another who might be his client.”

“Did they state the nature of their business?” Jacob demanded.

“They did not, but it is written in the face of Mr. Dane Montague. He wants as much of your million as he can induce you to part with. What his methods may be, however, I don’t know.”

“Show them in when I ring the bell,” Jacob directed, drawing the packet of papers once more towards him. “Extraordinarily complicated mass of figures here,” he added.

Dauncey withdrew into the outer office, closing the door behind him and still walking on tiptoe.

“Mr. Pratt will see you in a few minutes,” he said, with the air of one who imparts great news. “Please be seated.”

The two men subsided into chairs. Dauncey thrust a sheet of paper into a typewriter and desperately dashed off a few lines to an imaginary correspondent. Then the bell from the inner office rang, and, beckoning the two men to follow him, he opened the door of Jacob’s sanctum and ushered them in. Mr. Dane Montague advanced to the desk with a winning smile.

“My name is Dane Montague,” he announced, ostentatiously drawing off his glove and holding out a white, pudgy hand. “I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Pratt. This is my friend, Mr. James Littleham. The name may be known to you in connection with various building contracts.”

Jacob thrust away the papers upon which he had been engaged, with an air of resignation.

“Pray be seated, gentlemen,” he invited. “My time is scarcely my own just now. May I ask you to explain the nature of your business in as few words as possible?”

“Those are my methods exactly,” Mr. Dane Montague declared, throwing himself into the client’s chair, balancing his finger tips together, and frowning slightly. It was in this position that he had once been photographed as the organiser of a stillborn Exhibition.

“My friend Littleham,” he continued, “is a builder of great experience. I am, in my small way, a financier. We have called to propose a business enterprise to you.”

“Go on,” Jacob said.

“You are doubtless aware that large sums of money have recently been made by the exploitation in suitable spots of what have become known as Garden Cities.”

Jacob gave a noncommittal nod and his visitor cleared his throat.

“Mr. Littleham and I have a scheme which goes a little further,” he went on. “We have discovered a tract of land within easy distance of London, where genuine country residences can be built and offered at a ridiculously moderate cost.”

“Land speculation, eh?”

“Not a speculation at all,” was the prompt reply. “A certainty! Littleham, please oblige me with that plan.”

Mr. Littleham produced an architect’s roll from his pocket. His companion spread it out upon the desk before Jacob and drew an imitation gold pencil from his pocket.

“All along here,” he explained, tapping upon the plan, “is a common, sloping gently towards the south. The views all around are wonderful. The air is superb. There are five hundred acres of it. Here,” he went on, tapping a round spot, “is a small town, the name of which we will not mention for the moment. The Great Central expresses stop here. The journey to town takes forty minutes. That five hundred acres of land can be bought for twenty thousand pounds. It can be resold in half-acre and acre lots for building purposes at a profit of thirty or forty per cent.”

“The price of the land, if it is according to your description, is low,” Jacob remarked. “Why?”

Mr. Dane Montague flashed an excellently simulated look of admiration at his questioner.

“That’s a shrewd question, Mr. Pratt,” he confessed. “We are going to be honest and aboveboard with you. The price is low because the Urban Council of this town here”—tapping on the plan—“will not enter into any scheme for supplying lighting or water outside the three-mile boundary.”

“Then what’s the use of the land for building?” Jacob demanded.

“I will explain,” the other continued. “Situated here, two miles from our land, are the premises, works and reservoir of the Cropstone Wood, Water and Electric Light Company. They are in a position to supply everything in that way which the new colony might desire.”

“A going concern?” Jacob enquired.

“Certainly!” was the prompt reply. “But it is in connection with this Company that we expect to make a certain additional profit.”

Jacob glanced at the clock.

“You must hurry,” he enjoined.

“The Cropstone Wood Company,” Mr. Dane Montague confided, “is in a poorish way of business. The directors are sick of their job. They know nothing about our plan for building on the estate, and, to cut a long story short, we have secured a six months’ option to purchase the whole concern at a very low price. As soon as the building commences on the common, we shall exercise that option. We shall make a handsome profit on the rise in the shares of the Cropstone Wood Company, but our proposal is to work the company ourselves. At the price we can offer them at, it is certain that every building lot will be sold. Mr. Littleham here has prepared a specification of various forms of domiciles suited to the neighbourhood.”

Mr. Littleham, in a remarkably thick voice, intervened.

“I can run ’em up six-roomers at three hundred quid; eight and ten at five; and a country villa, with half an acre of garden, for a thousand,” he announced, relapsing at the conclusion of his sentence into his former state of sombre watching.

“There’s a very fair profit to be made, you see,” Mr. Dane Montague pointed out, “on the sale of the land and houses, without going more closely into the figures, but we want to be dead straight with you, Mr. Pratt. There should be an additional profit on the electric light and water which we supply from the Cropstone Wood Company.”

“I see,” Jacob remarked thoughtfully. “When they’ve bought their land, and the houses are beginning to materialise, you can charge them what you like for the water and lighting.”

Mr. Dane Montague beamed, with the air of one whose faith in the shrewdness of a fellow creature has been justified.

“You’ve hit the bull’s-eye,” he declared. “We’ve got the cost of service all worked out, and, added to the price we’ll have to pay for the Company, it don’t come to more than forty thousand pounds. Then we shall have the whole thing in our own hands and can charge what we damned well please.”

Jacob leaned back in his chair and surveyed his two visitors. There was a gleam in his eyes which might have meant admiration—or possibly something else. Neither of the two men noticed it.

“It’s quite a scheme,” he remarked.

“It’s a gold mine,” Mr. Dane Montague pronounced enthusiastically.

“There’ll be pickings every way,” the builder murmured thickly, with a covetous gleam in his eyes.

Jacob glanced at his watch.

“I’ll see the property this afternoon,” he promised. “If your statement is borne out by the facts, I am willing to come in with you. How much money do you require from me?”

Mr. Dane Montague coughed. Mr. Littleham looked more stolid than ever.

“The fact of the matter is,” the former explained, “Mr. Littleham here is tied up with so much land that he has very little of the ready to spare at present. Personally, I have been so fortunate lately in the City, had so many good things brought to me by my pals, that I am pretty well up to the neck until things begin to move.”

Jacob studied the speaker thoughtfully. He was an observant person, and he noticed that Mr. Dane Montague’s glossy hat showed signs of frequent ironing, that there were traces of ink at the seams of his black coat, and the suggestion of a patch on the patent boot which lingered modestly under his chair.

“You mean, I suppose, that you wish me to provide the whole of the capital?” Jacob remarked.

Mr. Dane Montague coughed.

“You happen to be the only one of the trio who has it in fluid form,” he pointed out. “It would suit us better to recognise you a little more generously in the partition of the profits as the land is sold, and for you to finance the whole thing.”

“I have no objection to that,” Jacob decided, “provided I am satisfied in other respects. How far is this delectable spot by road?”

“Twenty-two miles,” Mr. Littleham replied. “Barely that if you know the way.”

“I will inspect the property this afternoon,” Jacob announced.

“Capital!” Mr. Dane Montague exclaimed. “You are a man after my own heart, Mr. Pratt. You strike while the iron’s hot. Now what about a little lunch, say at the Milan, before starting?”

“On condition that I am allowed to be host,” Jacob stipulated, “I shall be delighted.”

Mr. Dane Montague chuckled. The suggestion relieved him of a certain disquietude regarding the contents of his pocketbook.

“No objection to that, I am sure, Mr. Pratt,” he declared. “Eh, Littleham? At one o’clock at the Milan Grill, then.”

“You can rely upon me,” Jacob promised.

He entertained his two new friends to a very excellent lunch, but he insisted upon bidding them au revoir on the threshold of the restaurant. Jacob had views of his own about inspecting the Cropstone Wood Estate.

“I wish to form a wholly unbiased opinion as regards the value of the property,” he declared, “and I should much prefer to walk over it alone. Besides, if we are all of us seen there together—”

“I quite understand,” Mr. Dane Montague interrupted. “Not another word, Mr. Pratt. Littleham, direct Mr. Pratt’s driver,” he added. “I have never been down by road myself.”

Littleham entered into explanations with the chauffeur, and Mr. Montague conversed in low but earnest tones with Jacob upon the pavement.

“Don’t think, Mr. Pratt,” he said, “that we are asking you to take part in a speculation, because we are not. That land at forty pounds an acre is a gift. You could buy it and forget all about it for ten years, and I wouldn’t mind guaranteeing that you doubled your capital. It’s just one of those amazing chances which come now and then in a man’s lifetime. The only thing that rather put us in a corner was the fact that the money has to be found within forty-eight hours. That won’t worry you, Mr. Pratt.”

“It will make no difference to me,” Jacob admitted.

“Then good luck to you and a pleasant journey,” was Mr. Montague’s valediction.

Jacob called for Dauncey, and after an hour’s ride they had tea in a small country town and walked along the edge of the common which Mr. Dane Montague had described. From the top of the ridge they obtained a fair view of the entire property. Jacob sat upon a boulder, lit a cigarette and contemplated it thoughtfully. He confessed himself puzzled.

“They look wrong ’uns, those two,” he observed, “but this land’s all right, Dauncey. It’s a capital building site.”

Dauncey plucked at his lower lip.

“I don’t know anything about property,” he admitted. “Never owned a yard of land in my life. Yet it seems to me there must be a hitch somewhere.”

A young man came strolling along the path, apparently on his way to the town. Jacob accosted him politely.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening,” the other replied, a little gloomily.

“Fine view here,” Jacob observed.

“Not bad,” the newcomer answered, without enthusiasm.

Jacob produced his case, and the young man accepted a cigarette.

“Are you a resident in these parts, may I ask?” Jacob enquired.

“For my sins. I’ve just set up an office in Cropstone.”

“Are you, by any chance, a lawyer?”

The young man laughed.

“Do I carry my profession about with me to that extent? Yes, I’m a lawyer. Mark Wiseman, my name is.”

“Not too many clients yet, eh?” Jacob asked kindly.

The aspirant to legal fame made a grimace.

“Too near London.”

Jacob looked down the ridge.

“Fine building property this seems,” he observed.

The other assented. “It’s for sale, I believe.”

“I happen to know that it’s for sale,” Jacob continued, “and at a very low price, too. What’s the drawback? The soil looks all right.”

“The soil’s good,” the young man acquiesced. “Everything’s good, I believe. The great drawback is that it’s just over three miles from Cropstone, where the lighting and water would have to come from.”

“And what about that?”

“They won’t supply it, that’s all.”

Jacob pointed to where an ornamental chimney, a power shed and a gleam of water appeared on the other side of a small wood.

“Isn’t there a private company there?” he asked.

“Practically defunct. They used to supply Cropstone, but the Urban Council there are running a show of their own.”

“Water good?” Jacob enquired.

“I’ve never heard any complaints.”

Jacob glanced at his watch.

“If you would be so good as to call at the White Hart Hotel at half past six this evening,” he said, “and ask for Mr. Jacob Pratt, there is a small matter of business I should like you to undertake for me in this neighbourhood.”

The young lawyer’s alacrity was not to be mistaken.

“I will be there without fail,” he promised.

At eleven o’clock precisely, the next morning, Mr. Dane Montague presented himself for the second time at Jacob’s offices, accompanied this time by a smaller, darker and glossier duplicate of himself, whom he introduced as Mr. Sharpe, his solicitor. Jacob did not keep them long in suspense.

“I have inspected the Cropstone Wood Estate,” he announced, “and I am willing to advance the twenty thousand pounds for its purchase.”

Mr. Montague moistened his already too rubicund lips.

“I felt certain that you would not neglect such an opportunity,” he said.

“The profits on the sale of the land in lots,” Jacob continued, “are, I presume, to be divided equally amongst the three of us. As regards the houses which Mr. Littleham proposes to build, I will advance whatever money is necessary for these, on mortgage, at six per cent interest, but the profit on the sale of these I should expect to divide.”

Mr. Montague showed some signs of haste.

“I don’t object,” he assented suavely. “Littleham and I will take the other half. It is a great relief to me to get this matter settled quickly,” he continued, “as I have an exceedingly busy day. There just remains one rather important point, Mr. Pratt. My offer of the property expires to-morrow, and the vendors might or might not be disposed to extend the time. In any case, it would be better not to ask them. Would it be possible to clinch this matter to-day?”

“Bring your agreement here,” Jacob directed, “at three o’clock, and I will give you my cheque for the amount.”

Mr. Sharpe reached for his hat.

“I can manage it,” he said, in reply to a look from Montague, “but I shall have to get along at once.”

At a quarter past three that afternoon, Jacob wrote his cheque for twenty thousand pounds, received a signed copy of the agreement with Messrs. Littleham and Montague, and sat by himself, whistling softly and listening to their retreating footsteps. Dauncey came in, a few moments later, with a perplexed frown upon his forehead.

“Please may I look through the agreement?” he begged.

Jacob passed it over to him. He read it through slowly and carefully.

“Anything troubling you?” Jacob asked.

“I don’t know what it is,” Dauncey confessed. “The agreement seems all right, but I saw their faces when I let ’em out. I can’t see the flaw, Jacob, but it’s not an honest deal. They’ve got something up their sleeve.”

Jacob smiled.

“Perhaps you’re right, Dick,” he answered. “Anyway, lock the agreement up in the safe and don’t worry.”