Alfred's weak hand was played out. The game was lost. He sat, looking despairingly at the floor. What should he do? Run away? Try to hide himself? That would draw attention to him, and bring exposure at once. Besides, where would he be safe from the detectives? He almost groaned aloud as he thought. The words of his grandfather came to him "Once more I pray God to keep you from crime! Once more I say that the remorse of a too late repentance is the bitterest of experiences!" He was suffering this bitterest of experiences now, and felt the truth of his grandfather's words. And yet he took credit to himself for the good resolution he had come to, of being a better man if Christopher Sly had won the Northumberland Plate. Whose fault was it that the horse had not won, and that this monstrous undeserved misfortune had come upon him? Not his. He had done his best: but he had been deceived, swindled, robbed; those false prophets had ruined him, and all the world was in a conspiracy against him. In this way he threw the blame off his own shoulders, and felt no shadow of self-reproach because he had been weak enough to allow himself to be duped by tricksters. In the midst of his self-tormenting the door opened, and he heard, in a pleasant voice, "Good-day, Staveley. How are things? Ah, Alf, you here! I thought it likely I might catch you." Alfred looked up, and Mr. Sheldrake smiled familiarly upon him. "Like Paul Pry, I hope I don't intrude," said Mr. Sheldrake. "Perhaps I'm interrupting business." "O, no," replied Con; "our business is over." "Well, _that's_ all right!" and Mr. Sheldrake clapped Alfred on the shoulder gaily. Alfred winced. He was labouring under a sense of injury, not so much at the present moment on account of Con Staveley's refusal to accommodate him, as on account of Sheldrake's recommending him to a man who had failed him in this desperate crisis. But he could not afford to quarrel with any man now; all his courage and insolence were gone. He said, almost humbly, "Mr. Staveley won't lend me the money." "Nonsense!" exclaimed Mr. Sheldrake. "Not on my recommendation. Come, come, Staveley, this isn't friendly, you know." "I think it is," replied Con; "there isn't a money-lender in London would let him have what he wants. Why, he can't even give security! Can't even give a good name at the back of a bill!" "Isn't my name good enough?" "For any amount; but we're friends, and I'm not to see you let in with my eyes open----" "That's my affair," said Mr. Sheldrake warmly. "It happens to be mine as well. I don't want to take money of my friends. Remember the three hundred you had to pay me last year, and the hundred and twenty for that poor woman----" "Shut up!" interrupted Mr. Sheldrake. "Let my affairs alone. You've no business to mention those things. You know I don't like it. How much did you ask Mr. Staveley for, Alfred?" "Fifty pounds; that's all. For three months only."