drink. I am very much obliged to you all, but I must be off. Must be
off," he repeated, making another effort to rise.

His host held him by the arm. The man resented it--he showed signs of
anger.

"D--n it all! I--I'm not a prisoner, am I?" he exclaimed angrily. "Tell
you I've got--appointment--club. Can't you see it's past five o'clock?"

"That's all right, Masters," the man whom he had addressed as Sir
Richard declared soothingly. "We want just a word with you on business
first, before you go--Colonel Dickinson, Lord Merries and myself."

Masters shook his head.

"See you to-morrow," he declared. "No time to talk business now. Let me
go!"

He made another attempt to rise, which his host also prevented.

"Masters, don't be a fool!" the latter said firmly. "You've got to hear
what we want to say to you. Sit down and listen."

Masters relapsed sullenly into his chair. His little eyes seemed to
creep closer to one another. So they wanted to talk business! Perhaps
it was for that reason that they had bidden him sit at their table--had
entertained him so well! The very thought cleared his brain.

"Go on," he said shortly.

Sir Richard lit a cigarette and leaned further back in his chair. He was
a man apparently about fifty years of age--tall, well dressed, with good
features, save for his mouth, which resembled more than anything a
rat trap. He was perfectly bald, and he had the air of a man who was a
careful liver. His eyes were bright, almost beadlike; his fingers long
and a trifle over-manicured. One would have judged him to be what he
was--a man of fashion and a patron of the turf.

"Masters," he said, "we are all old friends here. We want to speak to
you plainly. We three have had a try, as you know--Merries, Dickinson
and myself--to make the coup of our lives. We failed, and we're up
against it hard."

"Very hard, indeed," Lord Merries murmured softly.

"Deuced hard!" Colonel Dickinson echoed.

Masters was sitting tight, breathing a little hard, looking fixedly at
his host.

"Take my own case first," the latter continued. "I am Sir Richard Dyson,
ninth baronet, with estates in Wiltshire and Scotland, and a town
house in Cleveland Place. I belong to the proper clubs for a man in my
position, and, somehow or other--we won't say how--I have managed to pay
my way. There isn't an acre of my property that isn't mortgaged for more
than its value. My town house--well, it doesn't belong to me at all! I
have