There comes a period in the life of every man when, no matter how successful he may have been, he thinks for the moment he has chosen the wrong career. The comedian yearns to play Hamlet, and the world-renowned portrayer of the melancholy prince imagines he could set audiences in a roar of laughter. The carpenter regrets that he did not select the trade of blacksmith, and the blacksmith, as he mops his perspiring brow over red-hot irons, hankers for the ice business, while the ice man wishes he dealt in coal.

Young Lord Stranleigh began to realise the futile part he played in the affairs of the world at the time his friend and colleague, Mackeller, broke down in health. Now, Mackeller was a much more stalwart man than the slim and elegant Stranleigh, yet a London specialist informed him that his nerves were gone; that worry and anxiety had for the last few years so strained the heart that the price of prolonged existence was complete cessation from work, and withdrawal from business of any kind.

An English specialist who has successfully attended a member of the Royal Family, thus attaining instantaneously a European fame that years of hard work would never have achieved, does not temper the wind to the shorn lamb, but states the result of his diagnosis with a terseness that rather appals the ordinary man. The blow in Mackeller's case was softened by the fact that the big-boned Scotchman did not believe a word the expert said. There was nothing the matter with him, he averred, but an occasional distressing shortness of breath. His trouble was bronchial, and not cardiac, he insisted. The famous physician shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

"If you know so much of your own condition, why trouble coming to me?" he asked, with some show of reason.

"It is quite impossible for me," continued Mackeller, "to cease work at a moment's notice, as you suggest. Very large interests are involved, and any neglect of them might be ruinous."

"That's what every business man says," replied the doctor. "In your case, keep on as you are doing, and you have less than six months to live."

Peter Mackeller listened to this sentence of death with bowed head and furrowed brow, still incredulous; nevertheless, being an intensely practical man, his mind at once took up a search for an alternative. Perhaps, after all, this gruff medico might know what he was talking about. Never during his strenuous life had Peter experienced a single day's illness. The strong physique which his Highland ancestry had transmitted to him could surely not break down thus completely before he reached middle life. Most of his forefathers had died young at a hundred. Peter muttered to himself, rather than addressed the doctor—

"Perhaps Stranleigh would take charge of my affairs for a while."

"Do you refer to Lord Stranleigh?" asked the expert.

"Yes; he's an old friend of mine. He has got me out of trouble several times; I mean, of course, financial trouble."

"You say Earl Stranleigh of Wychwood is a friend of ours?"

"Yes."

"Well, if any man in England can afford monetary aid without feeling it, it is his wealthy lordship. I should be glad if you would bring him here one day, when I could discuss your case with him more freely than I can with you."

"There has been no lack of definiteness about your statements to me," said Mackeller, looking up. "You need not reproach yourself on that score."

The great man smiled for the first time. He had been visibly impressed by the friendship with Lord Stranleigh, for, after all, even the Royalties he attended were paupers compared with the youthful earl, and money talks in London as is its garrulous habit elsewhere.

"You see, it's like this, Mr. Mackeller. Your heart is racing along at ninety-five beats to the minute, when it should be contenting itself with from sixty to sixty-five. Roughly speaking, every four beats of the heart require one inspiration of air to the lungs. Your conservative lungs are vainly endeavouring to keep pace with your radical heart. The late Sir Henry Irving did me the honour to call at these rooms, and I told him exactly what I have told you. By a curious coincidence, his answer and yours were almost identical. He said it was impossible for him to stop work at the moment, because of numerous engagements he had accepted, and further stated that the only inconvenience he suffered was an increasing shortness of breath. In six months he would knock off for a while, but he could not do it then. Before six months were past, he was in Westminster Abbey. I suggest that you consult your friend, Lord Stranleigh, and bring him here, say a week from to-day, at this hour."

With that Mackeller took his leave, still wondering how much truth, if any, there was in the doctor's prognostications. He stepped into the electric brougham awaiting him in Harley Street, and curtly ordered his man to drive him to the office. Seated in the noiseless vehicle, he endeavoured to throw from his mind all thought of the doctor's doleful diatribe, and concentrate his attention on the business now awaiting him. He was disquieted to find that in spite of himself the sentence of six months kept running through his head like a recurring decimal. Suddenly he touched the electric button, and as the driver slowed down, directed him to turn round and proceed to Stranleigh House.

Although half the world had done half a day's work, the energetic Mackeller found, as he expected, that the easy-going young nobleman had just finished breakfast.

"Ah, Peter," cried his lordship, "there is little use in wishing you the top of the morning, for you have always transmuted the early golden hours into coin of the realm before one sees you! As the old adage says, 'Satan finds some mischief still'—no, no, that's the wrong one. Truth is, I'm hardly awake yet. What I wished to lay my hands on was, 'How doth the little busy bee improve each shining hour,' and gather money all the day, etc., etc. You've come in the nick of time for a sweet-when-the-morn-is-grey cigarette; or perhaps you prefer a fragrant Havana?"

"No,

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