n it. It was a jolly
little thing to do--"

"It wasn't a little thing for me, old chap. I shall never forget, and
be assured that you will get your money back some day, with interest."

"Oh, hang the money!" exclaimed Jimmie. "If I'm ever hard up I'll ask
for it. If you want to show your gratitude, my boy, see that you stick
to your promise and run straight as a die hereafter."

"I swear I will, Jimmie. I would be worse than a blackguard if I didn't.
Don't worry--I've had my lesson!"

"Then let it be a lasting one. There are plenty of fellows who _never_
get clear of the Jews."

Jimmie vanished into the next room, and in a few moments reappeared,
rubbing his face vigorously with a towel.

"Do you remember in the Jew's den," he said abruptly, "my calling your
attention to the men talking in the back office?"

"Yes, but I didn't know what you meant."

"Didn't one of the voices sound familiar to you?"

"By Jove, you're right, come to think of it. It reminded me of--"

"Of Victor Nevill," said Jimmie. "Benjamin's companion talked exactly
like him, it struck me."

"That's it. Queer, wasn't it? But, of course, it was only a coincidence.
Nevill couldn't have been there."

"No; I hardly think so," Jimmie answered, slowly and seriously.

"I'm positive about it," exclaimed Bertie. "Surely you wouldn't
insinuate that Nevill is a--"

"No, I can't believe him to be that--a tout for money-lenders. But it
was wonderfully like his voice."

"Don't get such an idea into your head," protested Bertie. "Nevill was
only in the place twice, and then he went to oblige me. He hates the
Jews, and won't have anything to do with them himself. And he don't
need to. He has a settled income of two or three thousand a year."

"Yet he refused to help you, and pleaded that he was hard up?"

"Yes," assented Bertie, "but he didn't put it exactly in that way. He
explained how he was fixed, and I quite understand it. He must save all
his spare cash just now. He is going to be married soon."

"That's news," said Jimmie. "I hadn't an inkling of it."

"Nor I," declared Bertie, "until a week ago. I was dining with Nevill,
and he had taken half a bottle too much, you know. That's when he let
it out."

"Who is the girl?"

"A Miss Foster, I believe. She lives somewhere near Kew Bridge, in a
big, old-fashioned house on the river. I suppose her father has money.
From what Nevill said--"

A sharp exclamation fell from Jimmie's lips, and hi