on the padded back of his chair, and quite undisguisedly listened to the talk, an ever-increasing smile lighting up his face. He was Sir George Selwyn, founder and supposedly chief shareholder of Selwyn's Bank, of which the crusty Corbitt was manager. When Stranleigh had disappeared. Sir George said quietly:—
"Alexander, turn your chair round this way. I have been listening to your conversation, and I wish to make some comments on it."
The usually impassive Corbitt promptly obeyed, but on this occasion could not conceal that he was startled. Sir George was about the only man on earth he deferred to, as Selwyn, being president of the bank, held Corbitt's commercial life in his hands. Sir George, however, had shown his confidence in, and even his liking for, Corbitt. It was through his influence that the younger man had been admitted into this rather particular club. Sir George, still smiling, said:—
"Do you know the last line of a most difficult verse from Browning, which G. K. Chesterton shows to be one of the simplest ever written, and confounds us all by the explanation?"
"I have no idea what you mean. Sir George.
"Why, I thought you Scotch were a poetical
