A faint spot of colour came on Christine's cheek. "What does it mean?" she asked. "I've been to see Grantley Imason to-day. He behaved uncommonly well. The bank can't do anything more for me, but as a private friend----" "Had you to ask him for money, John?" "Well, friends often lend one another money, don't they? I don't see anything awful in that. I daren't go to the money-lenders--I'm afraid they'll sell the secret." "I daresay there's nothing wrong in it. I don't know about such things. Go on." "He met me very straight; and I met him straight too. I told him the whole position. I said, 'The business is a good one, but I've got into a hole. Once I get out of that, the business is there. On steady lines (I wish to God I'd kept on them!) it's worth from eight to ten thousand a year. I'll pay you back three thousand a year, and five per cent. on all capital still owing.' I think he liked the way I put it, Christine. He asked if he could take my word for it, and I said he could; and he said that on the faith of that he'd let me have fifteen thousand. I call that handsome." "Grantley always likes to do the handsome thing." She looked at him before she put her question. "And--and is that enough?" He was ashamed, it was easy to see that--ashamed to show her how deep he was in the bog, how reckless he had been. He finished his tea, and pottered about, cutting and lighting a cigar, before he answered. "I suppose it's not enough?" said Christine. "It's no use unless I get some more. I don't know where else to turn, and I must raise thirty thousand in a fortnight--by next settling day--or it's all up. I shall be hammered, Christine." "If we sold up absolutely everything----?" "For God's sake no! That would ruin our credit; and then it wouldn't be thirty thousand we should want, but--oh, I don't know! Perhaps a hundred! We've sold enough already; there's nothing more we can do on the quiet." He sat down opposite to her, and stared gloomily at the fire. Christine rather wondered that he did not turn to abuse of himself for having got into the bog, but she supposed that the speculative temper, which acknowledges only bad luck and never bad judgment, saved him from that. He looked at her covertly once or twice; she saw, but pretended not to, and waited to hear what was in his mind: something, clearly, was there. "No, I don't know where to turn--and I shall be hammered. After thirty years! and my father forty years before me! I never though of its coming to this." After a long pause he added: "I want another fifteen thousand, and I don't know where to turn." He smoked hard for a minute, then flung his cigar peevishly into the fire. "I do wish I could help you, John!" she sighed. "I'm afraid you can't, old lady." Again he hesitated. "Unless----" He broke off again. Christine had some difficulty in keeping her nerves under control. When he spoke again it was abruptly, as though with a wrench. "I say, do you ever see Caylesham now?"