"Come, Barclay," he cried, with a smile; "I thought you were going to put me off. Here, I've been hard hit again. I'm as poor as Job, and I must have a hundred." For answer Barclay shrugged his shoulders, took out a fat pocket-book, and began to draw out the tuck. "Put that away," cried the Major impatiently; and he gave the book a flick with his riding-whip, but not without cutting right across Barclay's fingers, and making a red mark. The money-lender did not even wince, but he mentally made a mark against his client's name, intimating that the cut would have to be paid for some day or another. "I know all about that. I've had five hundred of you during the past two months. Never mind that; the luck must turn sometime. Cards have been dead against me lately. That Mellersh has the most extraordinary luck; but I shall have him yet, and we'll soon be square again. Come, I want a hundred." "When?" "Now, man, now." "Can't be done, Major, really." "Don't talk nonsense, man. I tell you I must have it." "Your paper's getting bad, Major. Too much of it in the market." "Look here, Barclay; do you want to insult me?" "Not I, sir; never thought of such a thing." "Then what do you mean?" "I mean? Only that you've had five hundred pounds of my money during these last three months." "For which you hold bills for seven hundred and fifty." "You put down five hundred pounds now in Bank of England notes, Major Rockley, and you shall have the lot." "Then you do mean to insult me, sir?" "No, Major." "What do you mean, then?" "Only that I won't part with another five-pound note till I get some of that money back." Major Rockley's dark brows came down over his eyes as he glared at Barclay with a peculiarly vindictive expression, while the money-lender thrust his hands deep down into his drab breeches' pockets, and whistled softly. "I shall not forget this, Barclay," he said slowly, and, turning upon his heels, he walked out of the place beating his boot viciously with his whip. "Oh, the monster!" cried Mrs Barclay, entering the room. "Why, you've been listening." "Well, didn't you leave the door open on purpose for me to listen, Jo-si-ah? Oh, what a bad, evil-looking man, Jo-si-ah. I believe he wouldn't stop at anything to get money from you now." "Black mask and a pair of pistols, on a dark night in a country road, eh, old lady? Stand and deliver; money or your life, eh?" "Well, you may laugh, Jo-si-ah; but he looks just the sort of man who wouldn't stop at anything. I am glad you wouldn't let him have any money, for I'm sure you'd never get it back." "I don't know so much about that, old lady, but whether or no, I wasn't going to let him have any this morning. He has been short lately, and no mistake. Some one I know's making a nice thing out of them at the mess." "Colonel Mellersh?" "Mum!" "Oh, there's no one to hear us now. But, I say, Jo-si-ah, why is he so friendly with Miss Clode?"