"And then， Major， it won't matter much to Messrs. Aylward and Champers-Haswell， who are used to that kind of thing and will probably dissolve partnership and lie quiet for a bit， and still less to folk like myself， who are only servants. But if you were still here it would have mattered a great deal to you， for it would blacken your name and break your heart， and then what's the good of the money？ I tell you， Major，" the clerk went on with quiet intensity， "though I am nobody and nothing， if I could afford it I would follow your example.
But I can't， for I have a sick wife and a family of delicate children who have to live half the year on the south coast， to say nothing of my old mother， and--I was fool enough to be taken in and back Sir Robert's last little venture， which cost me all I had saved. So you see I must make a bit before the machine is scrapped， Major. But I tell you this， that if I can get ā5000 together， as I hope to do out of Saharas before I am a month older， for they had to give me a look- in， as I knew too much， I am off to the country， where I was born， to take a farm there. No more of Messrs. Aylward and Haswell for Thomas Jeffreys. That's my bell. Good-bye， Major， I'll take the liberty to write you a line sometimes， for I know you won't give me away. Good- bye and God bless you， as I am sure He will in the long run，" and stretching out his hand， he took that of the astonished Alan and wrung it warmly.
When he was gone Alan went also， noticing that the clerks， whom some rumour of these events seemed to have reached， eyed him curiously through the glass screens behind which they sat at their desks， as he thought not without regret and a kind of admiration. Even the magnificent be-medalled porter at the door emerged from the carved teak box where he dwelt and touching his cap asked if he should call a cab.
"No， thank you， Sergeant，" answered Alan， "I will take a bus， and， Sergeant， I think I forgot to give you a present last Xmas. Will you accept this？--I wish I could make it more，" and he presented him with ten shillings.
The Sergeant drew himself up and saluted.
"Thank you kindly， Major，" he said. "I'd rather take that from you than ā10 from the other gentlemen. But， Major， I wish we were out on the West Coast again together. It's a stinking， barbarous hole， but not so bad as this 'ere city."
For once these two had served as comrades， and it was through Alan that the sergeant obtained his present lucrative but somewhat uncongenial post.
He was outside at last. The massive granite portal vanished behind him in the evening mists， much as a nightmare vanishes. He， Alan Vernon， who for a year or more had been in bondage， was a free man again. All his dreams of wealth had departed； indeed if anything， save in experience， he was poorer than when first the shadow of yonder doorway fell upon him. But at least he was safe， safe. The deed of partnership which had been as a chain about his neck， was now white ashes； his name was erased from that fearful prospectus of Sahara Limited， wherein millions which someone would provide were spoken of like silver in the days of Solomon， as things of no account. The bitterest critic could not say that he had made a halfpenny out of the venture， in fact， if trouble came， his voluntary abandonment of the profits due to him must go to his credit. He had plunged into the icy waters of renunciation and come up clean if naked. Never since he was a boy could Alan remember feeling so utterly light-hearted and free from anxiety. Not for a million pounds would he have returned to gather gold in that mausoleum of reputations. As for the future， he did not in the least care what happened. There was no one dependent on him， and in this way or in that he could always earn a crust， a nice， honest crust.
He ran down the street and danced for joy like a child， yes， and presented a crossing-sweeper against whom he butted with a whole sixpence in compensation. Thus he reached the Mansion House， not unsuspected of inebriety by the police， and clambered to the top of a bus crowded with weary and anxious-looking City clerks returning home after a long day's labour at starvation wage. In that cold company and a chilling atmosphere some of his enthusiasm evaporated. He remembered that this step of his meant that sooner or later， within a year or two at most， Yarleys， where his family had dwelt for centuries， must go to the hammer. Why had he not accepted Aylward's offer and sold that old fetish to him for ā17，000？ There was no question of share-dealing there， and if a very wealthy man chose to give a fancy price for a curiosity， he could take it without doubt or shame. At least it would have sufficed to save Yarleys， which after all was only mortgaged for ā20，000. For the life of him he could not tell. He had acted on impulse， a very curious impulse， and there was an end of it perhaps； it might be because his uncle had told him as a boy that the thing was unique， or perhaps because old Jeekie， his negro servant， venerated it so much and swore that it was "lucky." At any rate he had declined and there was an end.
But another and a graver matter remained. He had desired wealth to save Yarleys， but he desired it still more for a different purpose.
Above everything on earth he loved Barbara， his distant cousin and the niece of Mr. Champers-Haswell， who until an hour ago had been his partner. Now she was a great heiress， and without fortune he could not marry her， even if she would marry him， which remained in doubt. For one thing her uncle and guardian Haswell， under her father's will， had absolute discretion in this matter until she reached the age of twenty-five， and for another he was too proud. Therefore it would seem that in abandoning his business， he had abandoned his chance of Barbara also， which was a truly dreadful thought.
