"Do you mean to tell me that, after what you have said, you will not help me out of this bit of trouble?" "No, I do not mean to tell you that. I want to help you." "Then, come on." "Yes, come on to Mr Draycott, and let's ask him what is to be done." Mark Frayne leaped up from where he had rested in a sitting position upon the keyboard of the piano, giving his hands a bang down on either side, and producing fresh jangling discords, which seemed to fit with the harsh, mocking laugh he uttered. "Good boy!" he cried. "What an excellent son! That old cock-o'-wax, the Admirable Crichton, was nowhere. You'd have beaten him into fits, Dick. Go on, say something else; it does me good; only be gentle. I couldn't bear to be made such a saint as you are all at once." "Of course, I know it will be very painful for you," continued Richard, gravely; "but it is the only thing you can do, and Draycott has over and over again said to me, `If ever you find yourself in any trouble, Frayne, forget that we are tutor and pupil, and come to me as a friend.'" "You miserable sneak!" growled Mark, in a hard, husky voice. "No, I'm not; I'm your cousin, and I want to help you, Mark," said Richard. "I spend so much time at the music that I know very little about these money matters; but I do know that this fellow Simpson has been working to get you under his thumb, and running up an account twice as much as you justly owe him." "Go on," said Mark, "preach away! I won't quarrel with you; because, prig as you are, Dick, I don't believe you will refuse to help me. Look here, it's only signing your name. Will you do it?" "I'll give you all I've got, and undertake to let you have three-quarters of my next allowance from the lawyers. I can't do any more than that." "Once more," said Mark, huskily, "will you help me?" "I have told you," was the reply, "I'll lend you all I can scrape together, or go with you straight to Mr Draycott." "Once more," said Mark, with an ugly, vicious look in his eyes, "will you come in to old Simpson's and sign?" Richard Frayne sat looking firmly at his cousin, but made no reply. "All right," said Mark, with a laugh; "then the game's up! I shall make a bolt of it, and go to sea. No: every cad does that. I'll take my dearly beloved, sanctified cousin for a model, and be very good and saving. I won't waste all old Draycott's military teaching; it would be a pity!" "What do you mean?" cried Richard. "To go over to Ratcham and take the shilling. Perhaps I shall rise from the ranks." "Go and think about what I've said, and come back when you get cool. I won't go out all day, and--" _Bang_, _rattle_, and a crash! Mark Frayne had gone out and closed the door with so much violence that the dragoon officer's helmet was shaken from the peg upon which it hung, and fell, bringing with it the cavalry sabre.