"I tell you, boys, I'm in a pretty bad way," said Seepidge earnestly. "I don't think, even if I'd backed that winner, I could have got out of trouble. The business is practically in pawn; I'm getting a police inspection once a week. I've got a job now which may save my bacon, if I can dodge the 'splits'--an order for a million leaflets for a Hamburg lottery house. And I want the money--bad! I owe about three thousand pounds." "I know where there's money for asking," said Webber, and they looked at him. His interesting disclosure was not to follow immediately, for they had reached closing-time, and were respectfully ushered into the street. "Come over to my club," said Mr. Seepidge. His club was off the Tottenham Court Road, and its membership was artistic. It had changed its name after every raid that had been made upon it, and the fact that the people arrested had described themselves as artists and actresses consolidated the New Napoli Club as one of the artistic institutions of London. "Now, where's this money?" asked Seepidge, when they were seated round a little table. "There's a fellow called Bones----" began Mr. Webber. "Oh, him!" interrupted Mr. Morris, in disgust. "Good Heavens! You're not going to try him again!" "We'd have got him before if you hadn't been so clever," said Webber. "I tell you, he's rolling in money. He's just moved into a new flat in Devonshire Street that can't cost him less than six hundred a year." "How do you know this?" asked the interested Morris. "Well," confessed Webber, without embarrassment, "I've been working solo on him, and I thought I'd be able to pull the job off myself." "That's a bit selfish," reproached Morris, shaking his head. "I didn't expect this from you, Webbie." "Never mind what you expected," said Webber, unperturbed. "I tell you I tried it. I've been nosing round his place, getting information from his servants, and I've learned a lot about him. Mind you," said Mr. Webber, "I'm not quite certain how to use what I know to make money. If I'd known that, I shouldn't have told you two chaps anything about it. But I've got an idea that this chap Bones is a bit sensitive on a certain matter, and Cully Tring, who's forgotten more about human men than I ever knew, told me that, if you can get a mug on his sensitive spot, you can bleed him to death. Now, three heads are better than one, and I think, if we get together, we'll lift enough stuff from Mr. Blinking Bones to keep us at Monte Carlo for six months." "Then," said Mr. Seepidge impressively, "let us put our 'eads together." In emotional moments that enterprising printer was apt to overlook the box where the little "h's" were kept.