Arthur Carroll went on business to the City every morning.

He brought up to the station in the smart trap, the liveried coachman, with the mute majesty of his kind, throned upon the front seat.

Sometimes one of Carroll's daughters, as delicately gay as a flower in her light daintiness of summer attire, was with him.

Often the boy, with his outlook of innocent impudence, sat beside the coachman.

Carroll himself was always irreproachably clad in the very latest of the prevailing style.