"May I see you a moment?" he asked. "Out here." And he led the way to the gloom of the balcony. "If I only had the cash," Harrowby whispered excitedly, "I could break Stacy to-night. And I'm going to get it. Will you give me the necklace, please." "You forget," Minot objected, "that the necklace is supposed to have been stolen." "No. No. That's no matter. I'll arrange that. Hurry--" "You forget, too, that you told me this morning that should this necklace be found now--" "Mr. Minot--the necklace belongs to me. Will you kindly let me have it." "Certainly," said Minot coldly. And, much annoyed, he returned to the room amid the buzz and the thrill of gambling. Harrowby ran quickly down the stairs. In the office of the club he found Tom Stacy in amiable converse with Martin Wall. He threw Chain Lightning's Collar on the manager's desk. "How much can you loan me on that?" he demanded. With a grunt of surprise, Mr. Stacy took up the famous collar in his thick fingers. He gazed at it for a moment. Then he looked up, and caught Martin Wall's crafty eye over Harrowby's shoulder. "Not a cent," said Mr. Stacy firmly. "What! I don't understand." Harrowby gazed at him blankly. "It's worth--" "Not a cent," Stacy repeated. "That's final." Harrowby turned appealingly to Martin Wall. "You--" he pleaded. "I'm not investing," Wall replied, with a queer smile. Lord Harrowby restored the necklace to his pocket and, crestfallen, gloomy, went back to the room above. "Wouldn't loan me anything on it," he whispered to Minot. "I don't understand, really." Thereafter Harrowby suffered the pain of watching others play. And while he watched, in the little office down-stairs, a scene of vital bearing on his future was enacted. A short stocky man with a bullet-shaped head had pushed open the door on Messrs. Stacy and Wall. He stood, looking about him with a cynical smile. "Hello, Tom," he said. "Old Bill Huntley!" cried Stacy. "By gad, you gave me a turn. I forgot for a minute that you can't raid me down here." "Them happy days is past," returned Mr. Huntley dryly. "I'm working for Uncle Sam, now, Tom. Got new fish to fry. Used to have some gay times in New York, didn't we? Oh, hello, Craig!" "My name is Martin Wall," said that gentleman stiffly. "Ain't he got the lovely manners," said Huntley, pretending admiration. "Always did have, too. And the swell friends. Still going round in the caviar crowd, I hear. What if I was to tell your friends here who you are?" "You won't do that," said Wall, outwardly unshaken, but his breath came faster. "Oh--you're sure of that, are you?" "Yes. Who I am isn't one of your worries in your new line of business. And you're going to keep still because I can do you a favor--and I will." "Thanks, Craig. Excuse me--Martin Wall. Sort of a strain keeping track of your names, you know." "Forget that. I say I can do you a favor--if you'll promise not to mix in my affairs."