"More than three hundred?" she gasped. "How much more?" "They seem to add up to five hundred and eighty five pounds," he declared. "I must confess that I was surprised myself." "There--I think there must be some mistake," Clara faltered. He handed them to her. "You had better look them through," he said. "They seem all right." She took them in her hand, and looked at them helplessly. There was one there for fifty pounds which she tried in vain to remember--and how shaky her handwriting was. A sudden flood of recollection brought the colour into her cheeks. She remembered the long table, the men all smoking, the women most of them a little hard, a little too much in earnest--the soft click of the ball, the silent, sickening moments of suspense. Others had won or lost as much as she, but perhaps because she had been so much in earnest, her ill-luck had attracted some attention. She remembered Major Bristow's whispered offer, or rather suggestion, of help. Even now her cheeks burned at something in his tone or look. "I suppose it's all right," she said, dolefully, "only it's a lot more than I thought. I shall have three hundred pounds in the morning, but I've no idea where to get the rest." "You are sure about the three hundred?" Sir Leslie asked, quietly. "Quite." "Then I think that you had better let me lend you the rest, for the present," he suggested. "I am afraid your uncle would be rather annoyed to know that you had been gambling to such an extent. You may be able to think of some way of paying me back later on." She looked up at him hesitatingly. There was nothing in his manner which suggested in the least what Major Bristow had almost pronounced. She drew a little breath of relief. He was so much older, and after all, he was her uncle's friend. "Can you really spare it, Sir Leslie?" she asked. "I can't tell you how grateful I should be." He looked down at her with a faint smile. "I can spare it for the present," he answered. "Only if you see any chance of paying me back before long, do so." "You will pardon my interference," said an ominously quiet voice from the doorway, "but may I inquire into the nature of this transaction between you and my niece, Sir Leslie? Perhaps you had better explain it, Clara!" They both turned quickly round. Mannering was standing upon the threshold, the morning paper in his hand. Clara sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands. Sir Leslie shrugged his shoulders. He was congratulating himself upon the discretion with which he had conducted the interview. He had for a few moments entertained other ideas. "Perhaps you will allow me to explain--" he began. "I should prefer to hear my niece," Mannering answered, coldly. Clara looked up. She was pale and frightened, and she had hard work to choke down the sobs.