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Mr. Archibald Somerville, director of the famous firm of Woolito, Limited, and putative millionaire, was lying upon his couch, drawn up to a welcome fire in the large drawing-room of his house in Hyde Park Square. He was suffering from an attack of gout aggravated by his excesses at the recent dinner party given by his chief, Lord Marsom, at his mansion in Park Lane. He was a large, fleshy man, rubicund as a rule, but now flabby and grey after several days of inaction. His bandaged foot was carefully adjusted upon a cushion and his slovenly toilet was in forcible contrast to the expensive nature of his surroundings. The role of semi-invalid had been bad alike for his health and his temper. On a chair by his side was seated the young man from the City who acted as his private secretary, and who had just completed reading aloud to him an article from the _Commercial Review_.
"Damn these newspaper fellows," Mr. Somerville muttered, with a scowl. "They ought to be clapped in prison for an article like that. Read the last paragraph or so again, Ellis."