"No more than this?"

"No more—except that it was to be the
most brilliant thing of the day."

Mr. Trefalden smiled.

"Poor boy!" he said. "What a droll mistake
—and yet how like him!"

Seeing him so unruffled and amused, the City
man's belief in the success of his own scheme
was momentarily staggered. He began to think
he bad made no such capital discovery after
all.

"I hope you mean to share the joke, Mr.
Trefalden," he said, uneasily.

"Willingly. As is always the case in these
misapprehensions, Saxon was a little right and
a good deal wrong in his story. His money has
been lent to a company on first-rate security—
not invested in shares, or embarked in any kind
of speculation. I am not at liberty to name the
company—it is sufficient that he could nowhere
have found more satisfactory debtors."

"I suppose, then, there is no chance in the
same direction for outsiders?"

"My cousin has advanced, I believe, as much
as the company desires to borrow."

"Humph!—just my luck. Well, I am much
obliged to you, Mr. Trefalden."

"Not in the least. I only regret that I can
be of no service to you, Mr. Greatorex."

They rose simultaneously, and, as they did
so, each read mistrust in the other's eyes.

"Does he really want an investment?"
thought the lawyer; "or is it a mere scheme
of detection from first to last?"

"Has he caught scent of my little game?"
the banker asked himself; "and is this plausible
story nothing, after all, but a clever invention?"

These, however, were questions that could
not be asked, much less answered; so, Laurence
Greatorex and William Trefalden parted civilly
enough, and hated each other more heartily
than ever.

There was one, however, who witnessed their
parting, and took note thereof—one who marked
the expression of the banker's face as he left the
office, the look of dismay on William Trefalden's
as he returned to his private room. That keen
observer was Mr. Keckwitch; and Mr. Keckwitch
well knew how to turn his quick apprehension
to account.

CHAPTER, LXXI THE GREAT COMMERCIAL AUTHORITY.

THE young men had no difficulty in finding
the mansion of Mr. Melchisedek. It was a large,
white, Oriental-looking house, with innumerable
lattices, a fountain playing in the courtyard,
and a crowd of Nubian and Egyptian
servants in rich Eastern dresses lounging about
the gates.

When Saxon inquired for the master of the
house, a grave Armenian in a long dark robe
and lofty cap stepped forward and conducted
the visitors across the court-yard, through a long
corridor, and into a small room famished like a
European counting-house. Here they were received
by a gentlemanly person seated before a
large desk covered with papers.

"Mr. Melchisedek, I presume?" said Saxon.

The gentleman at the desk smiled, and shook
his head.

"I am Mr. Melchisedek's secretary," he
replied. "At your service."

"I particularly wish to see Mr. Melchisedek
himself," said Saxon, "if he will oblige me with
five minutes' conversation."

The secretary smiled again; much as a vizier
might smile at the request of a stranger who
asked to see the sultan.

"If you will do me the favour to state the
nature of your business," said he, " I will acquaint
Mr. Melchisedek with the particulars.
he may then, perhaps, grant you an interview."

So Saxon explained all about the inquiries
which he was anxious to make, and the secretary,
taking their cards with him, left the young men
for a few minutes to themselves.

"The Commercial Authority seems to be a
mighty man in the land," said Lord Castletowers.

"The Commercial Authority has a princely
garden," replied Saxon, looking out of the window
upon a maze of gorgeous flower-beds,
clumps of sycamores and palms, and alleys of
shadowy cypress-trees.

"Princely, indeed!" said the Earl; and quoted
a line or two of Tennyson:

    "A realm of pleasaunce, many a mound,
    And many a shadow-chequer'd lawn
    Full of the city's stilly sound,
    And deep myrrh-thickets bowing round,
    The stately cedar, tamarisks,
    Thick rosaries of scented thorn,
    Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks
       Graven with emblems of the time,
        In honour of the golden prime
            Of good Haroun Alraschid!

—by the way, Trefalden, what if the Commercial
Authority keeps the Persian girl 'with argent-
lidded eyes' hidden up behind yonder lattices!'"

At this moment the door softly re-opened,
and, instead of the secretary, the Armenian
appeared.

He bowed almost to the ground, and requested
the effendis to follow him.

Up a broad flight of marble steps they went,
and through a long suite of rooms magnificently
furnished in a semi-Oriental style, with divans
and hangings, carpets in which, the foot sank
noiselessly, statues, massive bronzes, ornamental
clocks, and large paintings in heavy Italian
frames. Having led them through five of these
stately reception-rooms, the Armenian paused
at the entrance to the sixth, held the velvet
curtain aside, and stood back to let them pass.

A spacious room, still more Oriental, and, if
possible, still more costly in its decorations,
opened before them. The windows admitted
the last crimson light of the setting sun. The
air was heavy with a mixed perfume of orange-
blossoms and roses, and the scented fumes of
Turkish tobacco.