“Then he sprang another one on me, and I told him that I was living with my Uncle Isaac--I used to have an Uncle Isaac,” she said in self-defence. “He was a sort of an adopted uncle. He died of delirium tremens. All our family have done something out of the common. I couldn’t say I was living alone in this big house, and anyhow, Gordon is away. It’s wonderful luck, his going.” Bobbie paced the floor in a state of supreme agitation. “What about the money?” he asked. “I owed it to him. Before he ran away into the bush we had a terrible scene. He wanted me to elope with him, and when I wouldn’t, he said he would commit suicide. He was like a madman; he cried over me, he kissed my feet, and then went off to lose himself in the bush. He didn’t even do that properly.” “And the money?” “He gave it to me, or the cat or somebody. Anyway, I had it. Dempsi hadn’t a relation in the world, and I just banked the money with my own.” She bit her lip. “I intended putting up such a beautiful monument to him,” she added thoughtfully. Bobbie drew a sigh of relief. “Well, my dear girl, as you’ve obviously sent him the money, the worst is over. You can replace it: the banks do not close till twelve.” “How am I to replace it?” she asked scornfully. “I’ve no money in my own bank, except a few pounds that I opened the account with when I came to London. I took the fifty thousand dollars and put eight thousand pounds to my own account. Here’s the rest.” She drew out a wad of bills and handed them to him. Bobbie looked at her aghast. “But this Tilmet, this American--you’ve got to find the money for him?” “I thought you’d get it for me,” she said, her big eyes fixed pleadingly on him. He looked at his watch. “It’ll want some doing. You can’t raise eight thousand in real money in two hours. Is this money of Gordon’s in your bank?” She nodded. “I’m sending Dempsi a cheque by special messenger. He’s living in a little hotel in the Edgware Road.” “He mentioned the money then?” “He made a casual reference,” she said, “which my conscience probably magnified into a demand. Phew!” She fanned herself with her hand. Bobbie locked away the remaining ten thousand dollars. “I’ll see what I can do. May I telephone?” She nodded. “You may do anything you please except ask me to marry Dempsi,” she said wearily. His first call was to his bank, and the conversation was not encouraging. Bobbie had just paid from his account heavy bills, and he was slightly overdrawn. To the suggestion that the overdraft should be increased, the manager turned an unsympathetic ear. And then, at the end of the third call, when Bobbie was in a condition of frenzy, Eleanor came in with a telegram, and the girl opened it quickly. “Saved!” she whooped. “What is it?” said Bobbie, snatching the form from her hand. It was dated Paris and was from the American’s secretary. “Feared Mr. Tilmet has contracted measles. Will not be able to arrive in London for another fortnight.”