“You look as if you were making out your last will and testament. Writing your own obituary notice, eh, old chappie?”--slapping him familiarly on the back. “In one sense you _are_ committing suicide, and burying yourself alive. I’ve sold your chestnut pony, and got the cheque--two fifty rupees--dirt cheap.” “It will go towards paying off some of these,” said Mark, nodding at the bills. “Oh, a mere drop in the ocean,” rejoined Clarence, with easy scorn. “However, we can’t have our cake and eat it,” ignoring the fact that it was he who had devoured not only his own cake, but the other man’s as well. “Here is the cheque for five hundred pounds,” said Mark, producing his cheque-book. “I told Uncle Dan I was going to draw it some time ago, so it will be all right”--writing rapidly and handing it over. “It will clear all bills here--mess, rent, and shops; or”--still retaining it-- “shall _I_ keep it and pay them? I can send the money by post.” Waring glanced at the slip of paper held towards him. His eyes blazed with a curious light; his voice was husky as he eagerly answered, “No, no; you may rely on me. I’ll be paymaster to the very end of the chapter,” and he seized upon the cheque somewhat precipitately. “And you will not make any other use of it than paying off our joint debts? You will promise me that, Clarence?” speaking with an air of cool authority. “On your honour, Waring?” “On my word and honour. What do you take me for, old man? I’ll get it cashed at the treasury here, pay all the bills like a gentleman, and send you the receipts. I hope that will please you?” “Yes, that will do, of course; and mind you settle them at once.” “I hear old Double Gloster and Miss Paske are engaged,” said Clarence, hastily changing the subject. “Are they?” indifferently. What was Shirani news to him now? “And there is not a road in India wide enough for Aunt Ida. Well, Mark, I am sorry you are so headstrong. You were always a bit hard in the mouth, though you never kicked over the traces. You’ve been a brick, I must say. What time are you off to-morrow?” “About seven o’clock.” “Then I think I’ll say good night. You look pretty fagged, and you had better turn in. This”--nodding--“is not good-bye; I’ll make a point of seeing you in the morning.” Nevertheless Mark stood erect, and held out his hand in silence. How pale he looked; how worn and haggard he had become! Clarence intuitively felt that this was their last interview; something indefinable assured him that they would never again stand face to face.