he answered, truthfully.

"Why, in Heaven's name, didn't you tell me all this sooner?"

"Oh, I kept hoping to get square somehow--without that. I wanted to
stay in your good books; and I saw you were rather down on chaps who
are casual about money. But I seem to be made that way, and----"

"So are most of us, my dear chap. But it's up to you to make yourself
some other way, if you don't want to come a cropper and leave the
Service. I hope I am no Pharisee, but I've been reared to believe that
living in debt is an aristocratic, and rather mean form of theft. My
notion of you doesn't square with that; and I know a good man when I
see one. You'll never mend matters, I assure you, by playing the fool
over horses and cards. How about your mother?"

Denvil looked down at the blank sheet of foreign note-paper before
him, and answered nothing. He was the only son of his mother, and she
was a widow.

"Can't you see that the fact of your having no father to pull you up
sharp puts you on your honour to keep straight in every way, on her
account? Does she know anything about all this?"

"How _could_ I tell her?" the Boy murmured, without looking up. "She
thinks me no end of a fine chap; and--and--I'm hanged if I know how to
answer her letters since--things have got so bad----"

"When did you write last?"

"About six weeks ago."

Desmond flung out an oath.

"Confound you!" he cried hotly. "What do you think she's imagining by
now? All manner of hideous impossibilities. I suppose you never gave
_that_ a thought----"

The Boy looked up quickly, pain and pleading in his blue eyes. "I say,
Desmond, don't hit so straight. I know I've been a brute to her; and I
feel bad enough about it, without being slanged--by _you_."

Theo Desmond's face softened, and he took the Boy's shoulders between
his hands.

"My dear lad," he said gently. "I'm sorry if I hit too hard. But I
feel rather strongly on that subject. I've no wish to slang you. I
only want to set you on your feet, and _keep you_ there. So we may as
well get to business at once."

"Set me on my feet! How the devil's _that_ to be done?"

Desmond smiled.

"It's simply a question of making up one's mind to things. In the
first place we must sell Roland. He's the best pony you have."

Harry straightened himself sharply, but Desmond's gesture commanded
silence.

"It's a cruel wrench, I know," he said gently. "Few men understand
that better than myself. But it's all y