e telephone
at my bedside rang, and I answered.

"Hulloa!" asked a voice. "Is that you, Owen?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Jack speaking--Jack Marlowe," exclaimed the distant voice. "Is that
you, Owen? Your voice sounds different."

"So does yours, a bit," I said. "Voices often do on the 'phone. Where
are you?"

"I'm out in Bayswater--Althorp House, Porchester Terrace," my friend
replied. "I'm in a bit of a tight corner. Can you come here? I'm so
sorry to trouble you, old man. I wouldn't ask you to turn out at this
hour if it weren't imperative."

"Certainly I'll come," I said, my curiosity at once aroused. "But
what's up?"

"Oh, nothing very alarming," he laughed. "Nothing to worry over. I've
been playing cards, and lost a bit, that's all. Bring your
cheque-book; I want to pay up before I leave. You understand. I know
you'll help me, like the good pal you always are."

"Why, of course I will, old man," was my prompt reply.

"I've got to pay up my debts for the whole week--nearly a thousand.
Been infernally unlucky. Never had such vile luck. Have you got it in
the bank? I can pay you all right at the end of next week."

"Yes," I said, "I can let you have it."

"These people know you, and they'll take your cheque, they say."

"Right-ho!" I said; "I'll get a taxi and be up with you in
half-an-hour."

"You're a real good pal, Owen. Remember the address: Althorp House,
Porchester Terrace," cried my friend cheerily. "Get here as soon as
you can, as I want to get home. So-long."

And, after promising to hurry, I hung up the receiver again.

Dear old Jack always was a bit reckless. He had a good income allowed
him by his father, but was just a little too fond of games of chance.
He had been hard hit in February down at Monte Carlo, and I had lent
him a few hundreds to tide him over. Yet, by his remarks over the
'phone, I could only gather that he had fallen into the hands of
sharpers, who held him up until he paid--no uncommon thing in London.
Card-sharpers are generally blackmailers as well, and no doubt these
people were bleeding poor Jack to a very considerable tune.

I rose, dressed, and, placing my revolver in my hip pocket in case of
trouble, walked towards Victoria Station, where I found a belated
taxi.

Within half-an-hour I alighted before a large dark house about
half-way up Porchester Terrace, Bayswater, standing back from the
road, with small garden in front; a house with closely-shuttered
windows,