The plausible, insidious scoundrel, who lived by his wits, was on his last legs--though he kept the fact a secret--was seen everywhere, carried a bold front, and owned a magnificent 60 h.p. motor, which was useful in more ways than one. He was staying at the Métropôle at Folkestone, and, struck by a bright idea--so he declared--motored over to Canterbury one fine Sunday morning, and carried off his friend to lunch. As they sat smoking and discussing recent race meetings, weights, and jockeys, de Montfort suddenly put down his cigar and said-- “I say, look here, Owen, old man. I’m in rather a tight fix this week. I want two thousand to square a bookie--and, like the real sporting chap you are--will you back my name on a bill?” Owen’s expression became unusually grave; backing a bill was an iniquity hitherto unknown to him. Uncle Dick had recently paid up handsomely, and he had given certain promises; and, indeed, had curtailed his expenses, sold two of his ponies, and had made up his mind to keep strictly within his allowance. “Of course it’s a mere form,” pursued de Montfort, in his swaggering, off-hand way, “I swear to you. Do you think I’d ask you, if it was not safe as a church! I’ll have the coin in a fortnight; but just at the moment I’m terribly short, and you know yourself what racing debts mean. So I come to you, my old pal, before any one; you are such a rare, good, generous, open-handed sort! Don’t for a moment suppose that _you_ will be responsible,” declared this liar; “I’ll take up the bill when it falls due; I’d as soon let in my own mother as a pal like you.” In short, Hugo was so urgent and so plausible, that his victim was persuaded and carried away by eloquence and old memories, accompanied de Montfort to a writing-table, where he signed O. St. J. Wynyard--and repented himself before his signature had been blotted! Two days later Owen received a beautiful silver cigarette-case, inscribed, as a token of friendship from de Montfort, and this was succeeded by an alarming silence. When the time approached for the bill to fall due, Wynyard wrote anxious epistles to his old schoolfellow--who appeared to be one of the crowd who believe that letters answer themselves! Then he went up to town and sought him at his rooms and club; no one could give him any tidings of Hugo beyond the fact that he was abroad--a wide and unsatisfactory address. He sent distracted telegrams to some of the runaway’s former haunts; there was no reply. The fatal day arrived, and Owen was compelled to interview his uncle and make a clean breast of the whole business; and his uncle was furious to the verge of apoplexy. “They used to say,” he shouted, “put the fool of the family into the army; but _my_ fool shall not remain in the Service! I’ll pay up the two thousand you’ve been robbed of for the sake of my name--and out you go! Send in your papers to-day!” * * * * *