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"Oh, George dear, do be careful!" cried Mrs. Early.

"No harm done," said George.

"There is, you bad boy! You've upset the salt. Throw a bit over your left shoulder—quick!"

George obeyed.

"Coffee or tea, dear?"

"Coffee," said George, briskly; "plenty of it."

Mrs. Early took up the coffee-pot and put it down again quickly with an expression of horror.

"Oh, look what you've done now!" she cried.

"What? Upset the mustard?" said George.

"You've crossed the knives. Separate them; it's terribly unlucky."

Again George obeyed.

"It's made me quite nervous," said Mrs. Early, pouring out the coffee. "I'm sure something is going to happen. There!" as a spoon slipped off the table, "a stranger's coming!"

George looked across the table into the wide-open eyes of his wife.

"I know," he said intelligently: "it's the sweep; these chimneys are in a terrible state. I told Martha about it the other day."

"It isn't the sweep," said Mrs. Early; "its a stranger who brings bad news. Something's happened."

George pondered for a moment, and then said—

"It must be that hat you sent to the milliner. Shop burnt out, I expect."

"It's worse than that," said Mrs. Early, pressing one hand cautiously to her heart. "I can feel it."

"You're right," said George, as he opened a letter brought in by Martha. "It's worse than that."

Mrs. Early grasped the table with both hands.

"Is it too bad for me to hear?" she whispered.

George leant his head upon one hand, and frowned heavily at the tablecloth.

"I suppose I'd better tell you," he said hoarsely. "Give me your hand. Are you calm now?"

"Quite," said Mrs. Early, shaking. "Tell me."

"Are you sure you won't faint?"

"I'll—I'll try not to."

"Then, listen," said George. "Your Aunt Phoebe is coming to stay with us."

He threw a letter across the table, and drew back in time to dodge the serviette thrown by his indignant spouse.

"George," said Mrs. Early, tragically, "I hate you!"

"Then come and give me a kiss," said George.

For answer Mrs. Early tossed her head, which necessitated her husband's going round the table to kiss her. This he continued to do until his wife reversed her decision.

"And yet," said Mrs. Early, "I can't get over the feeling that something is going to happen."

George looked up with the light of intelligence in his eyes.

"What is it?" said his wife.

"Perhaps Martha's going to give notice. I've seen a soldier hanging about the front lately, and she asked me yesterday if the flats in the suburbs were very dear?"

Mrs. Early gasped, and closed her mouth ominously.

"That must be it," she said in a terrible whisper.

"Don't worry," said George; "it hasn't happened yet."

As he left for Upper Thames Street his wife told him brightly that she believed that Martha was quite safe, as she had asked to have her bedroom whitewashed at Christmas.

"Funny creatures, women," thought George, as he bowled along in a hansom to the office. "Always getting some queer notions in their heads, always making mountains out of molehills. Good creatures, too," he mused. "Only got to be fond of 'em and tell 'em so, and they're ready to do anything for you. Well, I'm a lucky brute!"

The last thought was sufficiently good for George for the rest of the journey, and it was still strong upon him as he looked round the magnificent room he occupied at Fairbrothers'.

"Big and roomy," said he, standing with his back to the fire; "warm, cosy, and comfortable. Easy-chairs, cigars, drinks, and amusement in the shape of work. After work, a gorgeous house in Kensington, a good dinner, and a charming wife to talk to. What more could a man wish for?"

He lit a cigarette and looked about him.

"I took to this room from the first, something seemed to draw me to it; it's been my lucky room from the very beginning. I didn't think on the morning I came up here and overheard that little conversation that it was going to be the foundation of my fortune. It was a Friday, too, if I remember rightly. That's one for the people who say that Friday isn't a lucky day."

A knock came at the door, and Gray entered.

"Ah, Gray," said George, seating himself at a desk, "I was ruminating over things when you entered and broke the spell."

"I've got something to ruminate over myself," said Gray, bitterly. "I want to have a little talk with you."

George looked up and waited for him to continue.

"You needn't look so innocent," said Gray; "you can't bluff me now. I'm used to it."

George raised his eyebrows, and endeavoured to find a solution to the mystery in the countenance of his visitor.

"Have a good look," said Gray, "so that you'll know me again."

"I know you, Gray," said his master, pleasantly, "and I must remind you that I am the principal of this establishment. If you have any complaint to lodge you had better make it by letter. My time is precious."

"It was a low-down trick," said Gray, fiercely.

He began to pace up and down the apartment.

"What's a low-down trick? Explain yourself."

"Oh, don't come that game with me," said Gray, irritably. "You've been giving me away, and you know it!"

"I don't," said George. "I beg your pardon, Gray, but I don't know it."

"Do you mean to say you haven't been putting the lawyers on my track?" he asked in a terrible voice.

"Lawyers? What lawyers?"

Gray snatched a blue paper from his pocket, and threw it on the table.

"Look at that," he demanded, "and then get out of it if you can!"

George Early picked up the paper and read—

George turned over the paper and stared at it.

"Well, I'm hanged!" he said.

"What are you going to do about it?" asked Gray, sullenly.

"Do?" said George. "Nothing. Gray," he continued quietly, "upon my soul I haven't breathed a word of your secret to any person but yourself. Somebody must have told the lawyers, but, believe me, I had no hand in it."

"Then who is it?" said Gray.

"Perhaps the lawyers themselves are doing it."

"They've left me alone previously. Why should they begin now? If I find the man who did it," said Gray in a low, terrible voice, "Heaven help him!"

It was not possible to tell Mrs. Gray of this misfortune, so her husband, to account for his worried look, was forced to give out that he had lost the secretaryship of the Old Friends' Club. Some miscreant had libelled him and declared that he was a great drinker, and the club handed over the secretaryship to a temperance member.

"Just what I thought," said Mrs. Gray, sorrowfully; "Friday's an unlucky day, Jimmy; and when you told me his name, I had a creepy feeling all over me. I'm not surprised."

"What are you talking about?" said her husband, irritably. "Told you whose name?"

"Why, that man, Jimmy; 'Mould,' wasn't it?"

Gray smothered a profane word. "The skulking hound! Why, of course, he's the man who did it. Let me set eyes on him again. Him and his wonderful 'Tommy Morgan.' I'll give him 'Tommy Morgan'—I'll break his head!"

"Oh, Jimmy, do be careful of yourself!" pleaded little Mrs. Gray.

"I'll be right enough, Em. I'll give him 'Tommy Morgan'!"

Gray kept a keen eye open for the versatile Mole, but he never appeared again in the Cannon Street restaurant; nor was Gray sharp enough to catch a glimpse of him in St. Paul's Passage, although he haunted that place in a revengeful spirit for some days.

Probably a week of temperance and an abnormal sense of safety were responsible for the yearning to taste liquor that seized Gray one evening as he returned home. He determined to try his luck, so instead of journeying to Leytonstone he got out at Stratford, and struck off into a by-street. Having traversed one street after another, looking cautiously behind him at intervals, he selected an ill-lighted public-house and slipped into the private bar. Luck favoured him, the compartment was quite empty.

The stiff glass of whisky-and-water seemed the sweetest he had ever tasted, it warmed the heart and left a delightful flavour in the mouth. As Gray turned to depart, the partition shook, and a cough arrested his attention. He looked up and saw the face of Mole peering over the top.

Gray was furious. All the enmity he had engendered in the past week appeared in full force at a second's command. He rushed to the door of the next compartment. It was empty. He tried the next bar, and caught sight of a figure disappearing down the street. As Gray followed, the man began to run. It was an exciting chase, but Mole was too slippery for his pursuer, and Gray, after a vigorous hunt, was forced to confess himself beaten.

When George Early went through his morning letters an officious-looking blue envelope happened to be on the top. It bore the mark of Dibbs and Dubbs, and was addressed to "James Gray, Esq." It had evidently been put there by mistake.

George called a boy and sent the letter downstairs. Later in the day he was able, by careful observation, to conclude that Gray had received a second warning from the lawyers.

"For Mrs. Gray's sake," said George to himself, "I must see into this matter. It won't do for Gray to lose that legacy. I must talk to him seriously—threaten him, if necessary. He'll be careful for a few days; I'll wait, and when he's in the right mood point out the terrible consequences of his keeping to the drink."

With this virtuous resolution George Early dismissed the question, but bethought himself to mention it at the dinner-table that evening.

"Gray has had his second warning," he said, looking across at Aunt Phoebe. "I've given him plenty of advice. I suppose I shall have to threaten him now."

Aunt Phoebe looked very cross, and said that she really had no patience with men.

"Well, it serves him right, that's all I can say. I shouldn't threaten him. Let him go on. It's to your interest; it will punish him to lose the money, and I'm not sure that it won't do you some good to have it. I really think you'd be better as a teetotaler, too."

"What's all that to do with Gray?" asked George in astonishment. "For goodness' sake turn over to me all your knowledge of the complications of these Fairbrother wills and legacies. I'm continually getting surprises."

"I thought you knew all the complications of the legacies," said Aunt Phoebe, raising her eyebrows.

"It seems to me that I don't," said George.

"Why, don't you know that if Mr. Gray loses his legacy, it reverts to you, and that you get the money, and have to abide by the conditions as he did?"

"What!"

George leapt out of his seat like a man shot, and had to hold the table to steady himself. His wife and aunt shrieked simultaneously.

"What's that you say!" roared George. "Me take the legacy? Me be a teetotaler, and take over the—the——"

He sat down in his seat at the earnest request of his aunt, who declared that he ought to be ashamed of himself to frighten his poor darling wife by roaring like a lion.

"I don't understand," said George, in a dazed fashion. "Me take the—Gray lose his legacy, and me take it?"

Mrs. Early having recovered and scolded her "naughty boy," Aunt Phoebe begged her nephew to be calm, and repeated her former statement. It was quite correct; if the legacies were lost while Miss Fairbrother remained unmarried, they were to go to charities, but in the event of Miss Fairbrother being married the legacies, together with the conditions, would revert to her husband. It was Mr. Fairbrother's express wish, because he said his daughter's husband might need reforming, and if he didn't there would be no harm done.

"Very kind of him," said George; "and what about the husband? I suppose he can't lose the legacies—he's got them for life?"

"No," said Aunt Phoebe; "if he loses them the money goes to charities."

George gave a sigh of relief. "I'm afraid I should lose them," he said. "However, it wouldn't much matter?"

It was Aunt Phoebe's turn to be surprised. "Wouldn't much matter, do you say?" she almost shrieked. "Do you mean to tell me that you don't know all the terrible conditions attached to these legacies?"

George turned pale, and his wife was threatened with hysterics.

"What are the conditions?" asked George, hoarsely.

Aunt Phoebe rose to her feet.

"The conditions," she said, in an awesome voice, "are these: If the legacies revert to you, and you lose them, the Fairbrother fortune goes too. Every penny of your wife's income goes to charities!"

George Early's jaw dropped, and he sat in a helpless heap. His little wife burst into tears.

Presently George roused himself and took a glass of wine.

"Aunt Phoebe," he said; "did Old Fairbrother put those conditions in his will with regard to the three legacies?"

"I have said so," was the reply. "They were entirely the idea of Mr. Joseph Fairbrother himself."

"Then all I can say," said George—"all I can say is that he was a SILLY OLD FOOL!"

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