filed at Doctor’s Commons, and that the four drafts must be proved as debts against the estate, and so paid later, in due process of law on proof of the claim. The refusal was due to the death of the drawer before presentment. “Damn it! I must play a fine game now!” he glowered. “Anstruther I must obey in all! Once back in India with rank, however, I can force old Ram Lal to pay these drafts. He dare not resist--there’s the rope for him! “And I must find a fellow to spy out the situation in Jersey. I certainly dare not linger here!” He be-took himself to an old haunt in Tower Hamlets, where the first stars of the “swell mob” were wont to linger, a haunt where he had once taken refuge in his changeling days, years before. A glance at a man seated enjoying a good cigar at a table caused his heart to leap up in joy. “Jack Blunt--of all men! By God! this is luck!” he cried. When the happy Alan Hawke tapped the smoker smartly on the shoulder he first laid a finger on his own lip and then hastily said: “Get a private room, Jack, I want you at once. I’ve a special bit of business in your line.” Major Alan Hawke, Temporary Rank, unattached, hastily bade the boni-face serve the best supper available for two. “Mind you, no poison in the wine!” he sharply said. “We’ve the best vintages of London Docks,” grinned the happy host, as he sped away and left the two scoundrels alone. “What are you doing now, Jack?” queried Hawke. “Nothing,” sullenly replied the middle-aged star of the swell mob. “My eyes! you are in great form,” he admiringly commented. “Can you leave town for a week or so, on a little job for me?” briskly continued the Major. “Ready money?” said “Gentleman Jack” Blunt, stroking out a pair of glossy side whiskers. “Yes, cash in plenty on hand, and lots more in sight,” imperatively replied the Major. “Do I work with you, or alone?” asked Blunt. “It’s a little private investigation,” replied Hawke, “and as I have to leave town to-night, and spend a couple of months on the Continent, you are the very man. I am afraid to appear in the thing myself, as I am well known to the other parties, and so I fear being followed over the Channel. I’m back again in the army.” Jack’s eyes grew larger in a trice. “Here comes the grub,” gayly said Blunt. “You can trust the wine here. The crib is square, too. Now, my boy, fire away. We are alone, and no listeners here.” Before Jack Blunt had put away a pint of best “beeswing” sherry, he was aware of all Alan Hawke’s intentions. His keen brain was working all its “cylinders.” “Give me just five minutes to think it over, Governor,” said the sparkling-eyed, dark-faced, swell cracksman. “I know Jersey like a book. I worked the ‘summer racket’ there once. The excursion boats, the farmers’ races, the Casino balls, the Military games, and the whole lay. I think I can cook up a plan. You don’t show up just yet. I am to do the ‘downy cove.’”