“It’s no good swearing, Lambaire,” said Whitey. “We’re up against it--good. We’re _peleli_--as the Kaffirs say--finished. Get your cheque-book.” “Couldn’t we brazen it out?” querulously demanded the big man. “Couldn’t we put up a bluff----?” “Brazen!” sneered Whitey, “you’re a cursed fine brazener! You try to brazen a jury! Where’s the pass-book?” Reluctantly Lambaire produced it, and Whitey made a brief examination. “Six thousand three hundred--that’s the balance,” he said with relish, “and a jolly good balance too. We’ll draw all but a hundred. There will be delay if the account is closed.” He took the cheque-book and wrote in his angular caligraphy an order to pay bearer six thousand two hundred pounds. Against the word Director he signed his name and pushed the cheque-book to Lambaire. The other hesitated, then signed. “Wait a bit,” growled Lambaire as his friend reached for the cheque, “who’s going to draw this?” “I am,” said Whitey. Lambaire looked at him suspiciously. “Why not me?” he asked, “the bank knows me.” “You--you thief!” spluttered Whitey, “you dog! Haven’t I trusted you?” “This is a big matter,” said Lambaire doggedly. With an effort Whitey mastered his wrath. “Go and change it,” he said. “I’m not afraid of you running away--only go quickly--the banks are just opening.” “I don’t--I haven’t got any suspicion of you, Whitey,” said Lambaire with heavy affability, “but business is business.” “Don’t jaw--go,” said his companion tersely. If the truth be told, Whitey recognized the danger of visiting the bank. There was a possibility that a warrant had already been issued and that the bank would be watched. There was a chance, however, that some delay might occur, and in his old chivalrous way he had been willing to take the risk. Lambaire went to his room before he departed, and was gone for half an hour. He found Whitey standing with his back to the fire in a meditative mood. “Here I am, you see.” Lambaire’s tone was one of gentle raillery. “I haven’t run away.” “No,” admitted Whitey. “I trust you more than you trust me--though you half made up your mind to bolt with the swag when you came out of the bank.” Lambaire’s face went red. “How--how do you know--what d’ye mean?” he demanded noisily. “I followed you,” said Whitey simply, “in a taxi-cab.” “Is that what you call trusting me?” demanded Lambaire with some bitterness. “No,” said Whitey without shame, “that’s what I call takin’ reasonable precautions.” Lambaire laughed, an unusual thing for him to do. He pulled from his breast pockets two thick pads of bank-notes. “There’s your lot, and there’s mine,” he said; “they are in fifties--I’ll count them for you.” Deftly he fingered the notes, turning them rapidly as an accountant turns the leaves of his ledger. There were sixty-two. Whitey folded them and put them into his pocket. “Now what’s your plan?” asked Whitey.