To look at, Mr Tom Brandrith was a non-committal average individual who wore glasses. His work in life was to promote in a serene atmosphere, with the aid of two serene underlings, the interests of a small midland branch of a large metropolitan banking establishment. His manner, slightly professional, a cloak for shyness, was considered by the clientèle of his business house as cold and uninteresting. When uttering When uttering a commonplace, his glasses often looked at you more than his eyes, whose pupils were focussed on the open door through which you had come in, and by which you might shortly be expected to depart.

But

if you knew him better you would attribute this trait to a rooted dislike of contemplating faces that reflected nothing but dulness. For he was not all dull himself. He cherished a secret yearning for romantic

VOL. CCXVII.-NO. MCCCXI.

things. Adventure was a contingency he had trusted all his life might overtake him, and it had never in the very mildest degree approached him. He was not the man to go halfway to meet it, or indeed to court it in any way. He was too careful of himself by half.

But for this slight foible in yearning for the improbable, there was no more complacent cog in the whole machine of civilisation. He was a stickler for points, moreover, and took a great delight in the arrangement of detail and minutiæ, both in the business and the social sphere. His recreations consisted in collecting stamps and in reading works of adventure. But the latter he always indulged with a faint sense of guilt.

Thoughts of stamps never invaded his workinghours, but day-dreams of adventure did. They would surprise him suddenly, and burst

A