“You have got to bear your share,” said the other doggedly, “you are morally responsible. I wish I had never thought of bringing your infernal ships to Seahampton.” He was haggard and drawn of face. In two days he seemed to have shrunk so that his usually well-fitting clothes hung on him loosely. “Everything can be discussed in a quiet business-like way,” said Lord Flanborough. “I am very sorry that you have this loss. It is by no means certain that it is a loss, but business is business--you cannot expect me to shoulder your responsibilities, my dear friend.” “It is your responsibility as well as mine,” stormed Ralph, jumping up from his chair and advancing upon the little man who stepped cautiously backward, “and I insist upon your accepting your share.” “Which would amount to?” suggested his lordship. “About seven hundred thousand pounds,” growled the other. “Seven hundred thousand pounds! Impossible!” said Lord Flanborough emphatically. Ralph turned livid. “If you don’t,” he hissed, thumping his palm with his fist, “if you don’t--” At that moment help came in the shape of Moya. She nodded coolly to Sir Ralph and crossed the room to her father. “There is no news of Michael,” she said. “Dear me,” sighed his lordship. “Michael!” sneered Ralph. “There is no news of the money! That’s the important thing, Moya!” “We are not on the ‘Moya’ terms any more, Sir Ralph,” she said quietly. “Rub it in,” groaned the man. “I don’t want to rub it in. We all have our troubles, but some of us bear them less courageously than others. It won’t ruin you if you do lose all this money. You know you are enormously rich.” “I am not going to lose,” said Sir Ralph doggedly; “your father has to bear his share.” “If father is responsible he will bear his share,” said the girl, “but it is not by any means certain that he is responsible, is it, papa?” “Certainly not,” said Lord Flanborough, placing a table between himself and his infuriated partner. There was a tap at the door and Sibble came in, somewhat furtively. He looked mysteriously at Moya and she went to him. “What is it, Sibble?” she asked. “There’s a man to see you, miss,” he said. “I think it is something very special.” “To see me? Who is he?” “I don’t know who he is, miss, but he has a very special message for you.” She went out into the hall. A respectable looking man stood hat in hand. By his thick coat she thought at first he was an omnibus driver. In a sense, she was right. “Are you Lady Moya Felton, madame?” “Yes,” said the girl. He handed her a card. She took it. It was a business card announcing that Messrs. Acton and Arkwright, contractors, were prepared to remove anything from machinery to furniture and that they had a “larger number of motor lorries than any other firm doing business in the south of England.” “I am afraid there is a mistake,” she said. “I didn’t send for you.” “No, miss, we’ve brought the goods.” “The goods?” she said puzzled.