DEAR NEPHEW--Yes, I have no doubt that it is the correct thing to make your _fiancée_ valuable presents from time to time, but not at my expense--just yet. I must be satisfied that all is fair and aboveboard, as I am well seasoned to your crooked dealings, and I refuse to send you one shilling, and, in addition, shall stop the allowance I am making you within twenty-four hours unless I have proof that Lady Elaine Seabright is to be your wife. I have not an atom of faith in you, and regret more than ever that I have no son to bear my honored name. This is my ultimatum: Introduce Lady Elaine to me forthwith, and I will soon learn for myself how things really are. No more excuses will do for me. ROTHWELL. “By heavens!” he gasped. “I am ruined--ruined! Oh, I could gladly choke the life out of the old dotard! I am on the brink of a volcano that is rumbling at my feet, and powerless to move for--what? A paltry two thousand pounds! And now am I driven to the last stages of desperation, and there is not a moment to lose. I must face Isaacs once more, and if the worst comes to the worst, a pill from this will be the end!” He tapped his inside breast pocket, his sallow face assuming a ghastly hue. Then he laughed lightly, curled the ends of his mustache, and walked from the club library into the hall. A cab was crawling past, and he hurried to the street. “Oxford Circus!” he called to the driver, and jumped into the vehicle. As he moved away he saw a man watching him, and he never forgot the strange look in his eyes. He shivered, and called himself a fool. “It is my last throw,” he thought, “and I must keep my nerves steady. If I fail--exit! Pshaw! Why should I? The very alternative should give me confidence and strength.” He left the cab at Oxford Circus, and strolled along in a leisurely manner until he reached a narrow court. Here he paused momentarily, and glanced to the right and left. Again those eyes haunted him, but the man was not in the crowd. It was impossible. Turning into the court, he walked, perhaps twenty paces, and then entered a foul-smelling hallway, almost as dark as night. He was evidently well acquainted with the place, for, without any hesitation, he stepped lightly up a flight of rickety stairs and knocked sharply at a door at the top. It was opened by a middle-aged automaton, of powerful build, who stared dully at the visitor. “Is Mr. Isaacs within, Bulger?” inquired Rivington. “Oh, it’s the viscount!” observed Bulger, after a full minute’s reflection. “Yes, sir, he’s in. Do you wish to see him?” “Of course, Bulger; most important. Here is half-a-crown to expedite your movements, old man.” Bulger took the coin between the dirty fingers of his right hand, and smiled a wooden smile. “Thank you, viscount. I hope you are able to settle with him now.”