“About fifteen pounds.”
Anthony frowned. “That doesn’t give you much rope. Of course. I’ll be delighted—”
“Please!” interrupted Colin.
“All right. But I’ll take it unkindly if you get stuck without letting me know. In spite of my groans I’ve always a bit to spare—at least nearly always.” He looked at his watch. “Five minutes yet.” For a little while he was gloomily silent, then his face lightened. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you a note to a man who is interested, financially and otherwise, in many things. He might find you an opening somewhere. I once was able to do him a small service, and he has a long memory. . . . Let me see! This is Friday, and he doesn’t come to the City. Still, I believe he’ll see you at his house—say, about four o’clock.”
Anthony shook his pen and scribbled a few lines, folded the sheet, and put it in an envelope, which he addressed to—
“John Risk, Esq.,
“83 Aberdare Mansions, W.”
Handing over the letter he said: “You may find him cool at first; he is seldom anything else. Coolness seems to run in his family. But whatever you are, be frank with him. Come and see me to-night and report. There’s my address. I’ll have a chop for you at seven—and a bed if you’ll stay. And now”—he held out his hand—“good luck!”
Colin went out with a full heart. What a wonderful thing was friendship!
At four to the minute he presented himself at 83 Aberdare Mansions. He was evidently expected—it was like Anthony to have ’phoned—for the servant on hearing his name conducted him at once to a beautifully appointed study.
The servant placed a chair and retired. The tall man who had risen from the writing-table took West’s note, saying courteously, “Be seated, Mr. Hayward.” He sat down himself and read the note, then said quietly—