Oh, no, he had no complaint to make, he had only come to call on an old friend--such a swell! Bertie would remember the times they had had in New York. They had been waiters together, pals at the same hotel. Rum chance, eh, that they should run up against each other in London? It was a small world; you were always running up against some one wherever you might go. You couldn't keep out of any one's way; in fact, if it was God's will you should meet a feller you couldn't keep out of that feller's way, and then you might sometimes be able to do him a good turn.... There had been some letters written--and he scraped his throat--inconvenient letters. Sixty quid down for two letters to the young woman, that was the bargain. Life was hard; to get a little fun now and then in London cost a deal of money. And now there was a third letter, in the same hand--dear, dear, whose could it be now?--addressed to the old man. He did not want to be too hard on an old pal, but he had come just to ask him whether that letter too was of any value. He had it with him. "Then give it here," stammered Van Maeren, as pale as death, holding out his hand. Ay, but thirty sovs. was too little, a mere song. This letter was to the old man, and was worth more, and, to tell the truth, his old friend was hard up, desperately hard up. Bertie was a gentleman who could throw the money about, and he had a noble heart. He would never leave an old pal in the lurch. The devil's in it, we must help each other in this world. Say a hundred? "You are a rascal!" cried Bertie. "We had agreed on thirty pounds. I have not a hundred pounds; I am not rich." Well, of course he knew that; but Mr. Westhove no doubt, gave his friend sixpence now and then, and Mr. Westhove was made of money. Come, come, Mr. Van Maeren must think it over; he really should do something for an old pal and a hundred pounds was not the whole world after all. "I have not a hundred pounds at this moment, I assure you," said Bertie, huskily, from a parched throat, and shaking as if in an ague fit. Well, he would come again then, by-and-by. He would take great care of the letter. "Hand over the letter. I will give you the money another time." But his "old pal" laughed cheerfully. No, no--given is given. They might trust each other, but it should be give and take--the letter for the hundred pounds down. "But I will not have you coming here again. I will not have it, I tell you." All right. There was no difficulty on that score. His swell friend might bring it himself. To-morrow? "Yes, to-morrow without fail. And now go; for God's sake, go!" He pushed his demon out of the house, promising him, to-morrow--to-morrow evening. Then he called up Annie, and vehemently asked her whether she knew the man. "Who was the fellow?" he roughly inquired, like a gambler who plays a high trump at a critical point of the game.