Mr. Osborne sat trying to persuade himself into the belief that the man was an injured paragon though he knew very well that he was an irredeemable scamp. He endeavoured to see only his good qualities, which was a task of exceeding difficulty--they were hidden in such a cloud of blackness. At least, whatever might be said against Geoff--and Mr. Osborne admitted to himself that there might be something--it was certain that Geoff loved him almost as much as he loved Geoff. Mr. Osborne declared to himself--putting pressure on himself to prevent his making a single mental reservation--that Geoff Fleming, in spite of all his faults, was the only person in the wide, wide world who did love him. And he was a stranger in a strange land, and in trouble again--poor dear old Geoff! Once more Mr. Osborne's knuckles went up to wipe that suspicious moisture from his eyes. While he was engaged in doing this, a hand was laid gently on his shoulder from behind. It was, perhaps, because he was unwilling to be detected in such an act that, at the touch, he rose from his seat with a start--which became so to speak, a start of petrified amazement when he perceived who it was who had touched him. It was the man of whom he had been thinking, the friend of his boyhood--Geoffrey Fleming. "Geoff!" he gasped. "Dear old Geoff!" He paused, seemingly in doubt whether to laugh or cry. "I thought you were in Ceylon!" Mr. Fleming did exactly what he had done when he came so unexpectedly on Mr. Philpotts--he moved to the chair at Mr. Osborne's side. His manner was in contrast to his friend's--it was emphatically not emotional. "I've just dropped in," he drawled. "My dear old boy!" Mr. Osborne, as he surveyed his friend, seemed to become more and more torn by conflicting emotions. "Of course I'm very glad to see you Geoff, but how did you get in here? I thought that they had taken your name off the books of the club." He was perfectly aware that Mr. Fleming's name had been taken off the books of the club, and in a manner the reverse of complimentary. Mr. Fleming offered no remark. He sat looking down at the carpet stroking his moustache. Mr. Osborne went stammeringly on-- "As I say, Geoff--and as, of course you know,--I am very glad to see you, anywhere; but--we don't want any unpleasantness, do we? If some of the fellows came in and found you here, they might make themselves nasty. Come round to my rooms; we shall be a lot more comfortable there, old man." Mr. Fleming raised his eyes. He looked his friend full in the face. As he met his glance, Mr. Osborne was conscious of a curious sort of shiver. It was not only because the man's glance was, to say the least, less friendly than it might have been--it was because of something else, something which Mr. Osborne could scarcely have defined. "I want some money." Mr. Osborne smiled, rather fatuously.