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There was a mild hum of excitement in the offices of Messrs. Fairbrother. The honeymoon was over, and Mr. George Early had returned. He was already sitting in the big upstairs office, discussing business problems with a calmness and intelligent interest that surprised everybody. Those who had imagined him lolling in the armchairs, smoking expensive cigars, and telling his employÉs not to bother him but to look after the orders themselves, were more than astonished, and at once came to the conclusion that George Early had reformed.

The three legatees were among those who watched this business activity with satisfaction. If George Early had decided to throw all his energies into the business it was certain that he would give no thought to trivial questions of blackmail, nor waste his time in bothering about the reform of men in whom he was not interested.

Nevertheless he had not forgotten it, as Gray found out on the occasion of one of his visits upstairs.

"How's your wife, Gray?" asked the new master.

Gray replied that she was in the best of health.

"I hope she'll remain so," said George; "she's a good little woman, and she deserves a good husband. Now that you've given up the drink she ought to be very happy."

"She's happy enough," said Gray.

George said that he was glad to hear it.

"I suppose you've given up the secretaryship of the Old Friends' Club?" he said severely.

"Perhaps I have, perhaps I haven't," said Gray, who resented this catechism. "I shall give it up when it suits me; and this job, too, when I feel inclined."

"Don't do anything rash, now," said George; "I don't want to interfere with your affairs. You know that's not my way."

"Of course I do," said Gray; "you wouldn't think of such a thing."

"All I want, Gray," said George, "is to see you on the right path. You've got a good wife, a good home, and a good income. Stick fast to your business, and you'll be a successful man. Punctuality, perseverance, and temperance are the three rules for success, as you've heard me say many times. You have seen me climb the ladder step by step, until I have reached my present position. How has it been done? I need not tell you, Gray."

"No," said Gray; "I'd rather you didn't."

"Don't be afraid that I shall interfere with you," said George; "I know that I can trust you to go along the straight path. As I said to my wife the other day, 'If there's one man in the firm I can trust, it's James Gray.'"

"Thanks," said Gray. "If you've quite finished, I'll go down and send up somebody else."

Left alone, George Early smiled to himself, ruminated for a few moments, and then proceeded to examine the papers before him.

He had no intention of ruling with an iron hand, nor of exacting homage from the employÉs. He wanted to be in command, and at present he held that position, would be contented with it, too, while the interest lasted. By-and-by, perhaps, he would aspire to positions in the public service, become a sheriff, and eventually Lord Mayor. These things were very vague as yet, for at present the distraction of a big position, a wife, and a West End mansion he found sufficient.

He did not forget to put the head clerk and the cashier quite at their ease with respect to the legacies they were enjoying, nor to acquaint them, as he had done Gray, with the high opinion he had of their abilities. Parrott received his sermon with the stolidity one expects of a man whose sense of humour is under the average; and Busby, who knew exactly in what spirit he was being received, affected to be pleased, and wished George success in his new position.

Taking into consideration his humble start not many months previous, it must be conceded that George Early made a very good impression on his first day as proprietor of the old-established firm of Fairbrother.

It was a curious coincidence that on this very day another young bridegroom took over the affairs of an old-established firm in the City of London; and as these two firms have already had business relations sufficient to put them on a nodding acquaintance, and are likely to have further relations of an exciting nature, it will not be amiss to see how matters are proceeding with bridegroom number two, especially as his first efforts in his new post indirectly concern bridegroom number one.

Dibbs and Dubbs is a name familiar to all City youths whose business or pleasure it is to pass through St. Paul's Passage in Queen Victoria Street. The names stare at everybody from a brass plate, polished to a high degree of brilliancy, whereon it is further announced that these gentlemen follow the honourable profession of the law, and are to be found on the first floor within.

Dibbs, it may be mentioned, has long passed into the Unknown, and Dubbs, having wrestled for a considerable time with failing health, has recently followed him, leaving his son-in-law, but newly married, to attend to such clients as remain faithful, and to see that the brass plate keeps its position and its lustre.

The young lawyer, no less indefatigable than George Early, proceeded to do both these things as soon as he arrived in St. Paul's Passage. Having set the office-boy to work on the brass plate, he made a searching investigation of the contents of the office, and discovered that the firm itself was on the verge of following the lamented partners, unless some one with grit, energy, and ability was able to set to work and instil new life into it. This, without a moment's hesitation, he decided to do himself.

He sat down in the only easy-chair, and opened a long envelope labelled "Fairbrother," one of the few envelopes he had found in the safe. The contents of it were evidently of a highly interesting nature, for they drew from the reader exclamations of astonishment as from time to time he turned over the folios and re-read portions of them. Having finished, he rang a bell on the table.

"Mole," he said to the clerk who entered, "do you know anything of the affairs of Fairbrothers'?"

"No, sir," said the clerk, promptly.

"Nothing whatever?"

"Never heard the name before, sir," said the young man, decisively.

"Good," replied the lawyer; "be ready in half an hour to go out for me on an important mission."

"Yes, sir," said the clerk, with alacrity. An important mission was evidently of very rare occurrence at Dibbs and Dubbs, for the clerk promptly retired to his obscure office and executed a war-dance.

In half an hour the bell rang, and he returned to the outer office.

"Read that carefully," said his master, handing him a brief note.

Mole proceeded to do so with knitted brows.

"You understand thoroughly what you have to do?"

"I've got it pat," said the clerk, putting the note in his pocket.

"Good," said the lawyer again. "Here's half a sovereign. Now go, and report to me as soon as you return."

The importance of this mysterious mission can only be seen by following in the footsteps of the departing clerk. That he is to act the part of a sleuth-hound is evident at once from his movements.

On reaching the dark landing of the narrow staircase, his first act was to look carefully about him. Being assured that he was alone, he struck a match, and by its flickering light read carefully the note given him in the office. This seemed a superfluous performance, with the sun shining outside; but the detective knows his own business best. The next act of Mr. Mole was to pull off his trilby hat and tuck it behind the gas-meter, its place being supplied by a cloth cap drawn from a back trouser pocket. With the peak of this cap pulled well down over his eyes, and his coat collar turned up, Mole descended the staircase on tiptoe and reached the door. He looked up and down the court without turning his head, a feat only possible by turning the eyes till scarcely any part was visible but the whites. Apparently satisfied that all was well, he started off in the direction of St. Paul's, keeping to the sides with the same pertinacity that a mariner hugs the shore.

He avoided St. Paul's Churchyard, but kept to the narrow thoroughfare until he reached Paternoster Row, where he threaded his way through numerous courts and emerged on Ludgate Hill, near the Old Bailey. Giving a familiar nod to the old building, he darted across the road, and made his way along Water Lane to Upper Thames Street. Here a quick change was effected, which consisted in pulling the cap-peak rakishly over one eye, undoing the bottom buttons of his waistcoat, and covering his collar with a shabby muffler. Then, producing a clay pipe, he slouched along for some distance, taking note of the buildings with apparent carelessness.

He halted before a gateway labelled "Iron Wharf," beneath which was the well-known name of Fairbrother. This was evidently Mr. Mole's destination, for he entered the gateway and walked towards the warehouse, where a number of vans were loading.

Inside the roomy ground floor stacks of iron gutters and rows of stoves lined the walls. Pulley wheels and new sinks lay in heaps, marked with mysterious chalk hieroglyphics. Trollies trundled over the floor, and cries of "Below!" and "Take a turn!" resounded from the upper regions, where goods were being lowered to the vans.

"What are you after, mister?"

A bearded man in a disreputable-looking coat and a sack apron accosted Mole.

"Bit of old iron," said Mole. "That the way up?" nodding to a wooden staircase.

"That's the way until we get wings. What floor do you want?"

"Don't want a floor," said Mole; "got two at home. Guess again."

"P'raps you want something else?" said the man, looking hard at Mole's nose. "If so, you can have it."

"Thanks," said Mole. "I'll see you when I come down."

He ascended the staircase to the first floor. It appeared to be deserted, except for stacks of gas-stoves and iron mantelpieces. Mole walked round and examined the mechanism of the cooking apparatus until a footstep sounded.

"Hallo, there," said a voice. "Want a stove?"

Another bearded and ragged ruffian appeared.

"How much?" asked Mole.

"What size do you want?"—pulling out a rule.

"Never mind about the size," said Mole. "I'm looking for somebody."

"You won't find any one in there," said the man, as Mole opened a small oven door.

"Looking for a man name o' Bray," continued Mole.

"Jay? There's plenty of them about here. They're in every day, pulling the stuff about—tons of 'em."

"Almost as plentiful as whiskers, I suppose," said Mole. "Got a man here name o' Bray?"

The ragged salesman had turned to a small desk, and was poring deeply over a long order sheet marked "To-day certain" in bold writing.

"What d'yer think of that?" said Mole, producing a long cigar, and putting it on the desk. "Try it after dinner."

The man examined it closely and at a distance.

"Name o' Bray you said, didn't you?"

"Bray," said Mole.

"Don' know 'im," said the man. "No Bray here. It wouldn't be Wilkinson, I s'pose?"

Mole intimated with some heat that it was as likely to be Sasselovitch as Wilkinson.

"Bray, Bray, Bray. Don't mean Gray, do you?" said the man.

"Gray? Now, that's near it," said Mole. "I wonder if it could be Gray! Never seen the man myself, but a friend of mine in South Africa asked me to find him if I could when I got home. Is there a man here named Gray?"

"Down in the office," said the man.

"Ah! What sort of a' chap is he, now? I didn't want to see him especially, I just want——"

"Tommy!"

A yell came from the yard below.

"Hallo!" said the whiskered man, shuffling to the goods door that overlooked the yard. "Hallo there!"

There was no response.

"Here you are," he said suddenly to Mole. "That's Gray, going up the yard. Tail coat—see! Going out to lunch."

"Good," said Mole. "I think I'll go after him."

He scuttled down the stairs, and reached the street just as Gray turned up a court on the opposite side of the thoroughfare. Like a bloodhound, Mole followed him. Along Queen Victoria Street went the pair, the guileless Gray in front, his relentless pursuer twenty paces behind. Gray stopped at the windows of a typewriting establishment; Mole became absorbed in a new system of drainage displayed at an estate agent's. Gray went on a bit further, and stopped again; Mole did the same. Presently Gray, having dived into a passage, came out in Cannon Street and entered a restaurant; Mole waited long enough to stow away his pipe and muffler, turn down his collar and set the cloth cap at a proper elevation, and then followed.

Gray had seated himself at an unoccupied table in a cosy corner, and was reading the bill of fare. Mole proceeded with caution. Having hesitated between a seat near the front window and one by the fireplace, he finally settled himself opposite Gray at the same table.

Gray ordered a steak, and Mole decided on a chop. As the waiter was departing, Mole called him back and gave minute directions about the cooking, intimating at the same time that he would like something to drink.

A precocious youth with hair elaborately oiled and brushed rushed forward.

"Get me some whisky," said Mole; "and, look here!"—eyeing him sternly—"I don't want any of your cheap wash. Ask for 'Tommy Morgan.'"

"You won't get that about here," said the boy, decisively. "Can get you 'Killarney' or 'McNab' or 'Jimmy Jenkins.'"

"Look here," said Mole, gripping his arm; "you can get 'Tommy Morgan' if you try. But it's no good you going to common public-houses. Try a high-class place, and remember that there's twopence for yourself. Cut off!"

"Isn't it a funny thing, now," said Mole, addressing his remarks to the cruet and Gray, "that I have all this trouble to get a drop of good whisky? Mind you"—boldly addressing Gray—"I don't wonder at it, for the price is high, and it isn't everybody that can appreciate the flavour of 'Tommy Morgan!' It knocks 'em over. It's all strength and flavour."

"Must be pretty good," said Gray.

"It is," said Mole, "to those who understand whisky. To others it's nothing out of the ordinary."

"They say 'McNab' is good stuff," ventured Gray.

"Ordinary men may drink 'McNab!'" said Mole, picking up the Times and looking at it severely. "The whisky-drinker who has once tried 'Tommy Morgan' will never touch anything else. I've taken whisky since I was seven years old—was brought up on it; father drank it—grandfather too, and great-grandfather. We've been in the trade for generations. I don't suppose there's another man of my age who's a better judge of whisky than I am."

The precocious youth returned with the whisky in a tumbler.

"I got it, sir. Had to go to the Blue Crown. They charged a penny extra."

"Good," said Mole. "Now I can enjoy my dinner. If they'd charged a shilling for it," he said to Gray, speaking as a connoisseur, "it would have been worth the money."

He took a mouthful of the whisky-and-water, and closed his eyes with dreamy satisfaction. Gray called out to the retreating boy.

"How far do you have to go for whisky?" he asked.

"Not far, sir," said the boy. "Shan't be five minutes."

"Well, get me some whisky—the same," pointing to Mole's glass.

"I beg your pardon," said Mole, suddenly. "Allow me to say a word. Don't," lowering his voice, "don't take this unless you are used to whisky. Don't take it merely as a spirit, either. But——" he put one finger on Gray's sleeve and paused significantly, "if you want flavour—flavour, then try it."

Gray did try it, and was obliged to confess that he didn't notice anything special about it. Mole was not surprised; in fact, he said that he should have been surprised if Gray had noticed the flavour. Whiskies like "Tommy Morgan" were an acquired taste, you had to get used to them. When once you were used to them—when once you were used to "Tommy Morgan," then—

"It's like nectar," said Mole, draining his glass.

Gray agreed that good whisky was hard to get, and confessed that he had tried many sorts in his time. He didn't drink it regularly, but liked it good when he did have it.

"I drink nothing else but 'Tommy,'" said Mole, in confidence; "and I carry it with me always. I've just been round the country, and have run out of it till I get home. Got heaps at home, my brother-in-law is a partner in the firm."

"I must try a bottle," said Gray; "where's the London office?"

"No," said Mole, lifting his hand; "I introduced it. You must allow me to send you a bottle free. Try that, and if you like it, order as many bottles as you please."

Gray and Mole parted with enthusiasm, Mole promising to send a bottle of "Tommy Morgan" to the address given him. Mole could not be certain when they would next meet, as he was off to Liverpool and Ireland the next day, and might be travelling for months.

"Lucky meeting that," said Gray, as he went back to the office.

"What sort of man was he?" said Mrs. Gray, when she heard of the affable stranger. "Not very nice really I should think. Seems to me rather unlucky to meet a man named Mole on a Friday."

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