Rudyard Kipling 39 desired the blood of the gentleman in the frockcoat, and when he spoke again, and when he spoke again it was with a strained sweetness that Torpenhow knew well for the beginning of strife. “Forgive me, sir, but you have no — no younger man who can arrange this business with me?” “I speak for the syndicate. I see no reason for a third party to —” “You will in a minute. Be good enough to give back my sketches.” The man stared blankly at Dick, and then at Torpenhow, who was leaning against the wall. He was not used to ex-employees who ordered him to be good enough to do things. “Yes, it is rather a cold-blooded steal,” said Torpenhow, critically; “but ?'m afraid, I am very much afraid, you ve struck the wrong man. Be careful, Dick; remember, this isn’t the Sudan.” “Considering what services the syndicate have done you in putting your name before the world —” This was not a fortunate remark; it reminded Dick of certain vagrant years lived out in loneliness and strife and unsatisfied desires. The memory did not contrast well with the prosperous gentleman who proposed to enjoy the fruit of those years. “I don’t know quite what to do with you,” began Dick, meditatively. “Of course you're a thief, and you ought to be half killed, but in your case you’d probably die. I don’t want you dead on this floor, and, besides, it’s unlucky just as one’s moving in. Don’t hit, sir; you'll only excite yourself.” He put one hand on the man’s forearm and ran the other down the plump body beneath the coat. “My goodness!” said he to Torpenhow, “and this gray oaf dares to be a thief! I have seen an Esneh camel-driver have the black hide taken off his body in strips for stealing half a pound of wet dates,