"Jephson," said Mr. Thacker, "this boy here is the son of a man of whom I was very fond. His father left him the means to squander his life on clubs and cocktails if he had chosen—but he picked out a business career instead. Five years ago I took him into this office, and he has repaid me by faithful, even brilliant service. I would trust him with—well, I'd trust him as far as you'd trust a member of your own peerage."
"Yes?" said Mr. Jephson.
Mr. Thacker wheeled dramatically and faced his young assistant.
"Richard," he ordered, "go to San Marco. Go to San Marco and see to it that Miss Cynthia Meyrick does not change her mind."
A gone feeling shot through Mr. Minot in the vicinity of his stomach. It was possible that he really needed that lunch.
"Yes, sir," he said faintly. "Of course, it's up to me to do anything you say. If you insist, I'll go, but—"
"But what, Richard?"
"Isn't it a rather big order? Women—aren't they like an—er—April afternoon—or something
