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It would be difficult to say exactly how Fairbrothers' took the news of George Early's engagement to its chief, for it did not burst upon the staff in an official proclamation, but leaked out, and was generally credited as a mere rumour. That Miss Fairbrother should be absent from the office for ten days was not considered an extraordinary circumstance in the light of recent events, nor was it anything extraordinary for George Early to assume a tone of importance in affairs of the firm; but among the bright youths who copied the Fairbrother letters and handled the Fairbrother ledgers there were some detective spirits that did not fail to notice certain irregularities in the speech of the new manager.

More than one pair of eyebrows in the counting-house were lifted noticeably when the unusual "I" supplanted the usual "we," and certain dark and prophetic allusions by the manager as to what he would do about some particular affair "in a few weeks," brought the heads of the staff together at times when business was of more importance than desultory conversation.

In spite of rumours, the staff would probably have remained in the dark until the official announcement, had Miss Fairbrother not paid a flying visit to Upper Thames Street and come under the eagle eye of William Budd. That precocious youth singled out the engagement ring in a twinkling, and by lunch-time the whole office knew that Miss Fairbrother had found a husband. With one accord they fixed upon George Early as the lucky man. The office enjoyed its secret for one whole day; on the next Parrott was summoned to Brunswick Terrace, and instructed to take over the affairs of the firm while Miss Fairbrother changed her name to Early, and took a fortnight's holiday for the purpose of getting used to it.

It was only fitting that her Aunt Phoebe should hold a formal conversation with the prospective husband, and to this interview George Early went with the confident feeling that it would end amicably. It was not exactly the sort of interview that he expected, yet he could not say that he was any the less pleased at the prospect before him.

Aunt Phoebe shook hands, and intimated that her niece had gone out for the afternoon.

"You have had my congratulations," she said, "and I have only to repeat to begin with that you are a very lucky man."

George beamed and murmured his thanks.

"I don't hold with any of her nonsense about you being a hero, you know," she went on; "it's time enough to praise you when I've found that you're a good husband. And for my part I'm inclined to hope that you're a much more ordinary man, for I've no faith in heroes as husbands."

George coughed, and put his hat on the table.

"Before you marry," said Aunt Phoebe, practically, "it's just as well that you should know your prospects. If you have any idea of taking the Fairbrother fortune in your own hands, you'll be disappointed, for that is to remain entirely at the disposal of my niece, who is guided by me in her business affairs. I may as well say that I have some control over her and the property that will not be affected by her marriage. You need not fear that she will not be generous to you. Your position will be formally that of head of the firm; and, so far as income is concerned, nobody will guess that you are not the owner entirely."

"If it's all the same to you," said George, "I'd rather not hear any more on the subject."

"Indeed?" said Aunt Phoebe, coldly.

"I've got to call on a tailor at four o'clock, and it's now half-past three."

"This is a time to be serious," said Aunt Phoebe, severely.

"It isn't," said George; "it's a time to be married. That's quite enough for me just at present."

"I want you to understand about the property."

"I don't want to know. Do what you like with it. I'll leave it to you."

Aunt Phoebe promptly vacated her seat, and impatiently rang the bell and ordered tea. George thereupon, for the twenty-fifth time that day, consulted a note-book in which a confused mass of scribble spread itself over many pages. He was obliged to confess to himself that for the first time within his remembrance his brain was in a chaotic state. On confiding this intelligence to Aunt Phoebe, her ruffled feelings became smooth, for the most unintelligent person would have seen at once that this simple fact had revealed in George the common failing of the ordinary man.

George Early and Miss Fairbrother were married, and it is sufficient for our purpose to say that they went on the Continent for a fortnight, and met with the usual discomforts familiar to other travellers, and faced them with the heroic fortitude common in other honeymoon couples. If George was in any way different from another man in a similar position, it lay in the fact of his not waking up and wondering if his good fortune were a dream. George Early always met windfalls with a familiar nod, and took them as a matter of course; which is, after all, not a bad idea, if you can bring yourself to it, and if you happen to be one who runs in the way of good fortune. He did not, as may be supposed, allow his thoughts to run immediately on the prospect before him, nor form any notions of having "a high old time when he got his hands on the cash." You can never tell how marriage and good fortune will affect a man, and I don't suppose there was a person in Upper Thames Street who could give a near guess as to how it would affect George Early. Nobody, not even George himself, could have told you, though he could probably have guessed nearer than other people. But that it changed his fortunes and those of other members of the firm, will be seen as the history progresses. Some evidences of change in Upper Thames Street were already apparent, even before Mr. and Mrs. Early had returned from the honeymoon.

Three men had watched the growing friendship of the two with absorbing interest, and read the marriage announcement with some approval. They did so from motives of selfishness. In this change of affairs they saw relief from irritation that had tried their tempers and touched their pockets.

Parrott watched his increasing hoard with miserly satisfaction, and had already begun to weigh the merits of Streatham and Upper Tooting as suburban retreats, where, in company with the economical wife of his choice, he might enjoy the fruits of married life, and be free from the harassing demands of the blackmailer. George Early single was a source of increasing danger, but George Early married to a rich wife might be put out of his reckoning.

Upon reflection, a man might well assume at this stage that Old Fairbrother's legacies bid fair to effect the purpose for which they were instituted. Here were three men who might have been led away from faults that were eating into the soul of each, had not an impudent blackmailer stepped in at the beginning and torn from their clutches the healing medicine. Who knows but that they now might be well on the way to reform; that Parrott might be cheerfully handing crisp bank-notes to needy friends, Busby speaking the clarion voice of truth, and Gray quaffing copious draughts of bright sparkling water in place of the noxious intoxicant of his habit?

At the time of George Early's marriage, it must be admitted no evidence of reform had appeared, although nearly a month had elapsed since the hush-money had been asked for and paid. Parrott had successfully resisted the appeals of those who sought to relieve him of sundry half-crowns and pieces of gold; and Busby, as of yore, deceived all who came in his way, with a tongue that had lost none of its cunning. If the truth must be told, the head clerk had grown closer than ever, and had gone so far as to turn a deaf ear to an urgent request for a shilling.

Mrs. Gray noticed with regret that her husband's fondness for whisky had suddenly revived, and sighed deeply as she thought of the splendid lodger she had lost.

"So fond he was of you, too, Jimmy," she said.

"Who's fond of me?" asked Gray.

"Why, Mr. Early. You didn't drink so much of that horrid stuff when he was here. He had such a good influence over you."

"I know he had," said Gray, filling his glass. "Now he's got somebody who'll have an influence over him. Poor old George!"

"Oh, Jimmy! Do you think she'll be cruel to him? Why ever did he marry her?"

"Couldn't help it, I suppose," said her husband. "Perhaps he's going to reform her. Poor old George!"

"Jimmy," said Mrs. Gray, severely, "it's a shame for you to laugh. You ought to have prevented the marriage, if she's a horrid creature who'll worry his life out. You know he's been a good friend to you."

"Has he?" said Gray. "I'd forgotten that. Then I'll be a good friend to him. I'll go and be his lodger. No, I won't; I'll go and tell Mrs. Early that he's one of the best."

Gray helped himself to a further supply and toasted the new governor as "one of the best," in which Mrs. Gray, although a temperate little body, joined.

"When do you go to the club again, Jimmy?" said Mrs. Gray.

"Club? What club?" said Gray, who was arriving at that state when the truth begins to leak out unawares.

"Why, your club, of course; you're the secretary."

"Am I? Hooray! Hooray for the secretary!"

"You are the secretary, aren't you, Jimmy?" said Mrs. Gray.

"Course I am. You just said so. Hooray for——"

"Jimmy!" Mrs. Gray clutched his arm and took the glass from his hand. "Have you been deceiving me? Tell me if you belong to the club or not, and if you're really the secretary? Oh, Jimmy!"

Mrs. Gray sat down and burst into tears.

If anything was calculated to bring Gray into a sober state, it was the tears of his wife. He was not a model husband, but he had some affection for the little woman who adored and cared for him, and the sight of her weeping awoke him to the error he had made.

Gray had put his arm about her and lifted her up.

"I'm the secretary, little woman. Now don't cry any more. It's all right. I'm the secretary."

"You're not," sobbed Mrs. Gray; "I know you're not. You've been deceiving me, you wicked thing, and I—I won't forgive you. You don't belong to the club at all—you know you don't."

"I tell you I'm the secretary, don't I?" persisted Gray.

"I don't—don't believe you. You've been tel—telling me stories, Jimmy. It's a sha—shame to tell me stories. You oughtn't to do it."

"Look here," said Gray, taking her in his arms; "do you want me to prove what I say? Do you?"

"Ye—yes," she sobbed.

"Then ask George. If you won't believe me, ask him."

Mrs. Gray's sobs ceased and she began to dry her eyes. Gray reached over and helped himself to a little more whisky. "Ask him," he said, taking a drink.

In a little while Mrs. Gray, very much ashamed of herself, put her arms about her husband's neck and kissed him.

"I'm very sorry, Jimmy," she said, "I do believe you."

Mrs. Gray didn't ask George, and her husband continued in his dangerous career of intemperance. It was a pity that he did so, for with the good start as a teetotaler he had got during George Early's residence, he might have reformed and prevented the trouble that came, as trouble always does when you look for it.

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