“I have not been very fortunate of late,” replied the Baronet, still keeping up his dignity on my account; “and my property here has been much impaired by—by a lot of things that did not come off. I was not at Newmarket, because I intend to have nothing more to do with racing matters; which I must leave to people who are sharper than myself, and have different views of integrity. But anything really due to me—” “Perhaps I had better not say any more about it;” Henderson’s black eyes were twinkling with contempt. “I had no right properly to receive the money; and if I had thought twice about it, I should have refused, for I had no commission from you to collect it; but Georgie Roberts knew that I was coming to see you, and knowing me so well, he took my receipt on your behalf, because he was anxious to square up. I’ll just return it to him, and he can send you a cheque. I heard a thing afterwards that put me in the wrong. Bulwrag is the proper chap to act for you. And he seems to have been there after all, but he cannot have turned up, till Friday. I’ll send back these notes, and his receipt to Georgie.” Sam put away his pocket-book, and looked contented; but Sir Cumberleigh did not see it so. “No, Sam, no! Business is business. I will write you a receipt. How much did you say it was? Let me see. I forget these trifles. Somewhere about eighty-five, if I remember.” “Forty-five,” said Sam; and I was struck with the amount, because it was the very sum that had so grieved me. “He had forty against you upon the Levant. Downy managed that for you.” “Downy Bulwrag never did me any good, and he never will;” said the Baronet sternly, yet looking round, as if afraid of echoes. “He is always getting me into some vile scrape.” “For instance, about the young lady at Hounslow. Did he carry on any more with that affair?” Sam put this question in the most off-handed manner, just as if he had said—“Any news to-day?” But being unused to any mystery on shuffling, I looked for the answer with extreme anxiety, and Sir Cumberleigh observed it, and was put upon his guard. “How can I tell? I know nothing of his doings;” he answered, with his eyes on me, while speaking to my friend. “Downy is too deep for me; he is always up to something. Mr. Johnson, do you know him? You almost look as if you did.” “No, I have never had that honour,” I answered as calmly as I could; “I live in the country, and have little to do with London, except when I am there on business.”