"You'd have had it taken from you in a fortnight! Why, man,
do you know what London is? You'd have had no more chance
here than a naked nigger in a swamp-full of alligators."
"You seem to have hit it off," the other objected.
"This is as fine a house as I was ever in."
"With me it's different," Thorpe replied, carelessly.
"I have the talent for money-making. I'm a man in armour.
The 'gators can't bite me, nor yet the rattle-snakes."
"Yes--men are made up differently," Tavender assented,
with philosophical gravity. Then he lurched gently in the
over-large chair, and fixed an intent gaze upon his host.
"What did you make your money in?" he demanded, not with
entire distinctness of enunciation. "It wasn't rubber,
was it?"
Thorpe shook his head. "There's no money in rubber.
I'm entirely in finance--on the Stock Exchange--dealing
in differences," he replied, with a serious face.
The explanation seemed wholly acceptable to Tavender.
He mused upon it placidly for a time, with his reverend
head pillowed askew against the corner of the chair.
Then he let his cigar drop, and closed his eyes.
The master of the house bent forward, and noiselessly
helped himself to another glass of whiskey and water.
Then, sinking back again, he eyed his odd guest meditatively
as he sipped the drink.
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