"He's bought us, or thinks he has, body and soul." "Who nominated him?" "Ottley." I was not surprised to hear it. "He--he's Ottley's broker. Ottley
and he are running the market-change--together. Have you heard. They
have cornered South Africans. They made half a million between them
yesterday. All London is talking about it. And they want to turn us
into a beer garden." "You'll have to turn them out." "How can we? We owe them, Lord knows how much." "Then if you cannot," I said calmly, rising as I spoke, "you'll have to
grin and bear the infliction you have brought upon yourselves. After
all, it's a question of voting." "You'll stand by us, Pinsent?" he implored. "My resignation is at any time at your disposal, Ballantine. All the
same, I don't pity you a scrap. You are getting little more than you
deserve. I have been working for three years for the Society without
remuneration, and I am a poor man. Many of your older members are as
rich as Croesus, and yet you must needs import a vulgar semitic broker
to help you out of a hole. Good-afternoon." I left the poor old fellow helpless and speechless, staring after me
with anguished eyes and mouth agape. That evening I received a letter
from Louis Coen offering to finance my book on the Nile Monuments. He
said he felt sure it would prove a work of rare educational value,
and on that account he was willing to furnish every library in the
English-speaking world with a free copy. Aware, however, that I was
not a business man, he would conduct all the business arrangements
himself. On receipt of the manuscript, therefore, he would forward
me a cheque for £1000 as an instalment in advance of my share of the
profits--fifteen per cent. he proposed to allow me--and he wound up as
follows: "Your acceptance of my offer will commit you to nothing as
regards our chat of this morning. My good friend, Sir Robert Ottley,
put me up to this venture. He has the brightest opinion of your ability
and he is sure your book will prove a success. I am going blind on his
say so. Let me have an answer right away." I thought a good deal over this precious epistle, but in the end I
did not see why I should not make a little money. I knew very well
that under ordinary circumstances it would be impossible for me to
make £100, let alone a thousand, out of the Nile Monuments. But I felt
little doubt that Mr. Coen had a plan to make even more--somehow or
other. But I had done the man injustice--it was not money he was after. Reading the _Times_ two mornings later I came upon the following
announcement:


                      "A PATRON OF LEARNING"

     "We are informed that Mr. Louis Coen, F. R. E. S., has induced
     the well-known Egyptologist, Dr. Hugh Pinsent, to commit the
     results of his recent archæological researches on the Nile to the
     enduring care of the printer's ink. Mr. Coen has purchased the
     rights in advance for a large sum of the projected volume, which
     it is said will take the form of an exhaustive treatise on the
     Nile Monuments. It is not, however, Mr. Coen's object to direct
     his enterprise to his own financial benefit. It is his intention
     to produce a splendidly illustrated edition of the book for
     presentation to educational establishments all over the United
     Kingdom in the hope of thus fixing public attention upon the
     enormous historical importance of the work now being carried on
     by the Royal Egyptologist Society, of which Society Mr. Coen is a
     member, and a generous supporter. Mr. Coen is to be congratulated
     upon his latest effort in the interest of popular education. It will be remembered that last year he endowed a chair in the
     University of Newcome for study of the ancient Egyptian tongue;
     but it may be confidently expected that his exploitation of Dr.
     Pinsent's history will go much further in popularising a subject
     which is now practically confined to the ranks of leisured
     scholars." It was not pleasant to think that I had been idiot enough to allow Mr.
Coen to use me as a stepping-stone to notoriety. But it was too late
to object. The thing was done. My consolation was a bigger banking
account than I had had for years. Not even the fact that during the day
I received a score of sarcastic congratulatory telegrams from members
of the Society, could rob me of that satisfaction. But I sent in my
resignation all the same. I felt that I had no right to belong to any
institution run by Mr. Coen. I might meet him there--and if I did, a
police court case of assault and battery would infallibly result. Chapter XV

A Quaint Love Pact


One evening after a hard morning's work on my book, and a particularly
fatiguing afternoon spent in vainly trying to lift Hubbard out of
a funereal mood, I thought I should make myself a present of a few
minutes' conversation with Miss Ottley. I argued that she would be sure
to spend the evening out somewhere, so I knocked at her father's door a
few minutes before eight o'clock. A gloomy-looking footman opened the
door. Yes, Miss Ottley was at home. He would give her my card. Would I
wait? I would, though I wondered. I heard Dr. Belleville's voice. It
issued from a room that opened on the hall. He was talking shrilly as
though he were angered, and in French, perhaps to spare the feelings
of the servants. He kept repeating that he had made up his mind and
that he would not wait another day for God Almighty. All of a sudden
the door opened and he stalked out looking like the baffled villain in
a melodrama. We came face to face. He stopped dead and glared at me. "You!" he gasped. "What are you doing here; what do you want?" I glanced beyond him and saw Miss Ottley. He had been speaking to her,
then, and like that. My blood began to boil. I advanced upon him trying
to smile. I had seen Miss Ottley's face. "I want you to go right back
into that room and pretend you are a gentleman," I said. The girl had
put a kerchief to her eyes. "Quickly!" I added. Dr. Belleville returned into the room. I followed and closed the door. "Dr. Pinsent----" he began as I turned. But I cut him short. "On your knees," I commanded. He went livid. "Dr. Pinsent," said Miss
Ottley, "I beg you not to interfere. You will only make it the harder
for me." She might as well have spoken to a fence. I never took my eyes from
Belleville. "You know what you ought to do," I murmured. "If you compel
me to teach you, you'll repent the object lesson in a hospital." He fell on his knees before the girl. "I apologise," he groaned out in
a choking voice. I bowed him out of the room as deferentially as if he were a woman. He
vanished silently. Miss Ottley was dressed for the opera. "You are going out?" I asked. "Y-yes," she said. She was powdering her face before a mirror. "To the opera?" "Yes. To meet there Mrs. Austin." "Dare you walk there--with me for a companion?" "Oh, yes," she said. A moment later we found ourselves in Curzon Street. She took my arm.