It is winter; the London fog is without, and a great fire is roaring in the grate. And before that fire is seated a young gentleman who now, for the first time, is enjoying the privileges of a member.
Edward rose to his feet, and looked at the clock.
"It's six," said he. "Crouch ought to be here."
Max Harden consulted his watch, as if to verify the evidence of the tall grandfather's clock which proclaimed the hour between the masks of a snow-leopard and a panther.
"He said he would be back at five," said he to his uncle. "I suppose we'd better wait."
At that moment, one of the green baize doors swung open, and Captain Crouch limped into the room. He was now dressed in what he deemed the garb of civilization: that is to say, a navy blue pilot-coat, with brass buttons, and a red tie that might have served to guide him in the fog. They had the smoking-room to themselves.
"It's all right," said Crouch, "I've fixed it up. Lewis and Sharp paid over the money this afternoon, and I gave them a receipt."
"How much did they fetch?" asked Max.
"Three hundred and eighty thousand pounds."
Max whistled, but said nothing. For some minutes, the three explorers sat gazing into the fire. Not another word was spoken until Frankfort Williams burst into the room.