Episode 1

OUTSIDE a gilt-lettered door on the seventeenth floor of a New York office building, a tall young man in a fur-lined coat stood shivering.

Why did he shiver in that coat? He shivered because he was fussed, poor chap. Because he was rattled, from the soles of his custom-made boots to the apex of his Piccadilly hat. A painful, palpitating spectacle, he stood.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the door, the business of the American branch of that famous marine insurance firm, Lloyds, of London—usually termed in magazine articles "The Greatest Gambling Institution in the World"—went on oblivious to the shiverer who approached.

The shiverer, with a nervous movement, shifted his walking-stick to his left hand, and laid his right on the door-knob. Though he was not at his best, let us take a look at him. Tall, as has been noted, perfectly garbed after London taste, mild and blue as to eye, blond as to hair. A handsome, if somewhat weak face. Very distinguished—even aristocratic—in appearance Perhaps—the thrill for us democrats here of the nobility. And at this moment sadly need of a generous dose of that courage that abounds—see any book of familiar quotations—on the playing fields of Eton.

Utterly destitute of the Eton or any of any brand, he pushed open the door. The click two dozen American typewriters smote upon hearing. An office boy of the dominant New York race demanded in loud indiscreet tones business there.

"My business," said the tall young man weakly, "is with Lloyds, of London."

The boy wandered off down that stenographer-bordered lane. In a moment he was back.

"Mr. Thacker'll see you," he announced.

He followed the boy, did the tall young man. His courage began to return. Why not? One of his ancestors, graduate of those playing fields, had fought at Waterloo.

Mr. Thacker sat in plump and genial prosperity before a polished flat-top desk. Opposite him, at a desk equally polished, sat an even more polished young American of capable bearing. For an embarrassed moment the tall youth in fur stood looking from one to the other. Then Mr. Thacker spoke:

"You have business with Lloyds?"

The tall young man blushed.

"I—I hope to have—yes." There was in his speech that faint suggestion of a lisp that marks many of the well-born of his race. Perhaps it is the golden spoon in their mouths interfering a bit with their diction.

"What can we do for you?" Mr. Thacker was cold and matter-of-fact, like a card index. Steadily through each week he grew more businesslike—and this was Saturday morning.

The visitor performed a shaky but remarkable juggling feat with his walking-stick.

"I—well—I—" he stammered.

Oh, come, come, thought Mn Thacker impatiently.

'Well," said the tall young man desperately, "perhaps it would be best for me to make myself known at once. I am Allan, Lord Harrowby, son and heir of James Nelson Harrowby, Earl of Raybrook. And I—I have come here—"

The younger of the Americans spoke, in more kindly fashion:

"You have a proposition to make to Lloyds?"

"Exactly," said Lord Harrowby, and sank with a sigh of relief into a chair, as though that concluded his portion of the entertainment.

"Let's hear it," boomed the relentless Thacker.

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