out my old friend the Promoter, and ask him to
give me a helping hand.

To find the offices of the Universal Discount
Company was not difficult. In the centre and
soul of business London—the district bounded
by Bishopsgate-street on the east, the Mansion
House on the west, the end of Moorgate-street
on the north, and King William-street on the
south every one knew the whereabouts of that
most celebrated undertaking. Towards it I
bent my steps, and of the wealthy-looking
burly porter that man who at a glance could
tell the monetary condition of all who
addressed him—I asked for Mr. Skeeme. The
question seemed to astonish the highly
respectable servant. I had been too abrupt. It
was as if I had driven to Marlborough House,
and asked the sentinel on duty to show me up
to the Prince of Wales. "Mr. Skeeme does
come here," was the reply, in a supercilious
tone which made me feel very small, "but he
ain't here now, and what might you please to
want?" The janitor evidently thought that I
must be after no good, and that I perhaps had
the intention of getting some of the vast funds
of the "Universal Discount Company" by
force from the chairman. "Was I a friend of
Mr. Skeeme's, or did I come on business?"
"Yes, a very old friend." "Well, that was
board-day, Mr. Skeeme would be there about
two o'clock, and if I would come about three,
perhaps he would see me."

I did come about three, and having sent up
my card, the porter came back most respectfully,
begging I would follow him, and that "Mr.
Skeeme would see me in five minutes."

The five minutes lengthened into ten, fifteen,
twenty. But when the great man made his
appearance, his manner assured me that no
slight whatever was meant by the delay, and
that if the City magnate earned money, he
certainly worked for it, and worked hard too.
He was "very glad indeed," he said, "to
see me," but "if I wanted to speak to him
beyond three minutes, I must come out to his
house, for he had not now a moment to spare.
It was half-past three, and he had an appointment
"(here he rang a hand-bell, and ordered a
Hansom immediately)" at the 'Great South-
ern Railway' at 3.45; and another at the
'Deep Sea Mining Company' at 4.30. But
would I come the next day but one, Sunday, and
dine at his house in Kensington Palace Gardens,
at six sharp? Always dine early on Sunday;
servants go to church; day long. Come, and we'll
talk over anything you want." Saying this,
Skeeme took my arm, to the amazement of the
hall porter, who had the cab ready, and was
pompously opening the half doors of the same,
so that the great man might enter without
trouble. We had just got to the street, when
Skeeme said, "If you are going my way, I can
give you a lift; jump in, for I forgot to say
something to you;" and so off we bundled
together.

Once the cab in movement, Skeeme began to
speak. "Don't be annoyed," he said, "but if
between this and to-morrow you want money,
tell me frankly. Don't stand on ceremony. I
have some blank cheques in my pocket-book,
and can fill you in one for twenty, thirty, or
forty pounds, only tell me exactly what, and
we'll talk over details to-morrow." But I
hastened to assure Skeeme that, although very
much in want of something to do, I was in no
immediate necessity for money.

To Kensington Palace Gardens I betook
myself the next Sunday. The house in which
Skeeme lived was one of the best in that haven
of millionnaires. I had never been in a mansion
of the kind before. Everything in it seemed
so new, so fresh, so expensive, and so good of
its kind, that you felt lost whether to summarise
your opinion as to whether the evident lately
acquired wealth was offensive, or the number of
modern contrivances were to be praised. The
hall was covered with pictures—game pieces,
fruit pieces, fish pieces, the irrepressible replica
of the abbot receiving the stag and the salmon at
the porch of the monastery, the oil portrait of the
favourite horse, the oil copy of two or three of
Landseer's dogs—in short, the actual
ornamentation was, on a small scale, what Belvoir
or Raby Castle might be on a large scale. But
there was a newness about everything. The
pictures seemed to have been painted to order,
of a size to suit certain places or spare parts of
the wall. There were stags' heads (from
Wardour-street) upon which riding and hunting
whips hung, that had the fault of everything
else about the place—they were much too new.
My hat was taken by a butler in a new suit of
black, my great-coat by a footman in a still
newer suit of livery, and I was ushered through
a boudoir hung in pale yellow satin that was
newer still, into a drawing-room ornamented
with a pale blue material which was newest of
all. Nothing could be finer nor in better taste
than each particular article of furniture, but, as
a whole, it had the fault which pervaded the
whole house—every chair, table, picture,
statuette, mirror, frame, fire-iron, writing
ornament, the very grates—expressed that they had
all got there by contract from their respective
makers' hands at one and the same moment.

Not so Mrs. Skeeme—ormerly housekeeper
and cook at my cousin's. She, poor woman,
had certainly not got younger since the
days when she lived in South Audley-street.
She was the only old looking object in
the room, and was none the less pleasant to
look at for that reason. The poor old soul did
not appear to have risen either in spirits or in
education with her rise in life. She was in
constant dread that all the finery round her
would vanish as quickly as it came. She
welcomed me in a half-kind, half-diffident manner,
as if she wanted to be cordial with me, and yet
did not like me to think that she had forgotten
how in old times I had known her as a servant.
At dinner, however, Mrs. Skeeme was in her
own element. The dinner was excellent; not a
dish too much, nor a thing badly cooked. The
mistress of the house evidently understood what