ver in the history of the club had
anything like that happened.

"You liar!" snapped Meredith.

Jim's hand came out. His fingers buried themselves in Meredith's shoulder,
till the pale face winced with pain. His great body tightened up and his
eyes were like cold steel. No one had ever called him "liar" before. It
aroused all the innate fury within him. The other hand was drawn back to
strike--and then he remembered. He gave an almost pitiful grunt and
released his grip. Cholmondeley and a few others dragged him away.

"Conlan," said Claude, "you oughtn't to have said that. It isn't done."

"There's no way out," whispered Cholmondeley. "You'll have to apologize."

A dapper little man, a bosom friend of Meredith's, hurried forward,
bristling with indignation.

"You have grossly insulted a member of this club, sir. We demand an
apology," he said.

"Better apologize," whispered Claude.

Jim was trying to be a "gentleman," but the word "liar" from the lips of a
card-sharp had pierced the thin veneer that a few months of sophisticated
environment had brought about, and scratched into the coarser material
beneath. Restraint went to the winds.

"Apologize!" he roared. "Apologize to a swindling tinhorn? I should
smile!"

CHAPTER IV

ANGELA

The Featherstones were a remarkable family--remarkable in their
unparalleled irresponsibility. They had a house in Grosvenor Place and
another in Devonshire. The latter, like the Featherstones, was gorgeous in
its external aspect, but thoroughly unstable in its foundations. The
instability of Lord Featherstone was of a financial character. He, like
the rest of his family, believed in giving a wide berth to such sordid
considerations as money. Whenever he wanted money he called in the family
solicitor, who promptly raised another mortgage on something.

Featherstone was so used to signing his name on pieces of paper that
custom grew into habit. Lady Featherstone still gave expensive house
parties, and the Honorable Angela acted as though all the wealth of the
Indies was behind those magic signatures of papa.

Young Claude, with a liberal allowance per annum, managed to wring a few
thousands overdraft from his banker by dint of a plausible tongue and a
charm of manner. When the crash came and Featherstone was forced to face
realities, the house was like a mortuary.

"But surely you can raise the wind, my dear Ayscough?"

The aged solicitor, an intimate friend of the