“That’s all right, Masters,” the man whom he had addressed as Sir Richard declared soothingly. “We want just a word with you on business first, before you go--Colonel Dickinson, Lord Merries and myself.” Masters shook his head. “See you to-morrow,” he declared. “No time to talk business now. Let me go!” He made another attempt to rise, which his host also prevented. “Masters, don’t be a fool!” the latter said firmly. “You’ve got to hear what we want to say to you. Sit down and listen.” Masters relapsed sullenly into his chair. His little eyes seemed to creep closer to one another. So they wanted to talk business! Perhaps it was for that reason that they had bidden him sit at their table--had entertained him so well! The very thought cleared his brain. “Go on,” he said shortly. Sir Richard lit a cigarette and leaned further back in his chair. He was a man apparently about fifty years of age--tall, well dressed, with good features, save for his mouth, which resembled more than anything a rat trap. He was perfectly bald, and he had the air of a man who was a careful liver. His eyes were bright, almost beadlike; his fingers long and a trifle over-manicured. One would have judged him to be what he was--a man of fashion and a patron of the turf. “Masters,” he said, “we are all old friends here. We want to speak to you plainly. We three have had a try, as you know--Merries, Dickinson and myself--to make the coup of our lives. We failed, and we’re up against it hard.” “Very hard, indeed,” Lord Merries murmured softly. “Deuced hard!” Colonel Dickinson echoed. Masters was sitting tight, breathing a little hard, looking fixedly at his host. “Take my own case first,” the latter continued. “I am Sir Richard Dyson, ninth baronet, with estates in Wiltshire and Scotland, and a town house in Cleveland Place. I belong to the proper clubs for a man in my position, and, somehow or other--we won’t say how--I have managed to pay my way. There isn’t an acre of my property that isn’t mortgaged for more than its value. My town house--well, it doesn’t belong to me at all! I have twenty-six thousand pounds to pay you on Monday. To save my life, I could not raise twenty-six thousand farthings! So much for me.” The man Masters ground his teeth. “So much for you!” he muttered. “Take the case next,” Sir Richard continued, “of my friend Merries here. Merries is an Earl, it is true, but he never had a penny to bless himself with. He’s tried acting, reporting, marrying--anything to make an honest living. So far, I am afraid we must consider Lord Merries as something of a failure, eh?” “A rotten failure, I should say,” that young nobleman declared gloomily. “Lord Merries is, to put it briefly, financially unsound,” Sir Richard declared. “What is the amount of your debt to Mr. Masters, Jim?” “Eleven thousand two hundred pounds,” Lord Merries answered.