"So I have a servant." "You have everything this flat contains and five thousand pounds at the end of three weeks." "Oh, what a lark," said Richard gaily. "I only hope it will prove so," said Mr. Torrington. "Was wondering where I'd sleep tonight." "I wonder where you will." "All right, gentlemen, you can leave it to me. I shan't let you down. If you'll excuse me I'm going to have a bath. In the event of our not meeting again you might post that cheque to care of Porters, Confectioners, 106b, Earl's Court Road--my town address." He stopped at the room door and grinned. "Please help yourselves to a drink or anything you fancy. My entire resources are at your disposal. Goodnight." The door closed and a moment later came the sound of water splashing into the bath. "Well, what do you think?" Cranbourne demanded enthusiastically. "A nice boy," Mr. Torrington returned. "Straight. I'm wondering how much he will have to go through in the next three weeks." "Yes, but from our point of view?" "Ah, from our point of view I think we might declare a dividend. If you would lend me an arm, Lord Almont, we will speak a word of farewell to Barraclough through the wine cellar door." CHAPTER 8. INTRODUCING A LADY. It was Cranbourne, who at the door of the flat thought of a final precaution, excused himself to his companions and asked leave to enter the bathroom. Richard was standing on a cork mat, rubbing himself with a Turkish towel and, after the fashion of all good men, singing lustily in time with the exercise. He favoured Cranbourne with a grin as he materialized through the wreaths of steam. "Hello, back again!" Cranbourne nodded and cast an appreciative eye over the well articulated muscles of the stripped figure before him. "Just one thing," he said, "if you don't mind." "Fire away." Cranbourne produced a notebook and a pencil. "Scribble your signature on this bit of paper." "I see. My writing. Here you are." Richard took the pencil and book and sitting on the edge of the bath--and without thinking--dashed off his own signature. When he had finished he handed it to Cranbourne who shook his head sadly over the result. "No good?" "'Fraid not. It was hardly to be expected. Whatever you do, don't write." "I won't." Cranbourne glanced at the page again. "This is your real name, I suppose." Richard started, hesitated a bit, then nodded. "There was a Frencham Altar mixed up in that Patagonian business." "My father. Went broke and shot himself, you know." "I remember. Left you on the rocks, so to speak." "Yes, and wedged there good and hard. You see he aimed at my being a gentleman and nothing else--never was taught how to earn a living. That's why I'm cutting rather a deplorable figure now." "I can't agree," said Cranbourne generously. "I think your father realised his ambition. Goodnight." "Night-oh!" At the door Cranbourne paused.