There came a knock at the door, and he bade the knocker come in. A neat maid entered with a tray, on which lay a card, and Amber took it up carelessly. “Mr. George Whitey,” he read. “Show him up.” Whitey was beautifully dressed. From his glossy silk hat to his shiny patent shoes, he was everything that a gentleman should be in appearance. He smiled at Amber, placed his top-hat carefully upon the table, and skinned his yellow gloves. Amber, holding up the card by the corner, regarded him benevolently. When the door had shut-- “And what can I do for you, my Whitey?” he demanded. Whitey sat down, carefully loosened the buttons of his frock-coat, and shot his cuffs. “Name of Amber?” His voice was a very high one; it was of a whistling shrillness. Amber nodded. “The fact of it is, old fellow,” said the other, with easy familiarity, “Lambaire wants an understanding, an undertaking, and--er--um----” “And who is Lambaire?” asked the innocent Amber. “Now, look here, dear boy,” Whitey bent forward and patted Amber’s knee, “let us be perfectly frank and above-board. We’ve found out all about you--you’re an old lag--you haven’t been out of prison three days--am I right?” He leant back with the triumphant air of a man who is revealing a well-kept secret. “Bull’s-eye,” said Amber calmly. “Will you have a cigar or a butter-dish?” “Now we know you--d’ye see? We’ve got you taped down to the last hole. We bear no resentment, no malice, no nothing.” “No anything,” corrected Amber. “Yes----?” “This is our point.” Whitey leant forward and traced the palm of his left hand with his right finger. “You came into the Whistlers--bluffed your way in--very clever, very clever--even Lambaire admits that--we overlook that; we’ll go further and overlook the money.” He paused significantly, and smiled with some meaning. “Even the money,” he repeated, and Amber raised his eyebrows. “Money?” he said. “My visitor, I fail to rise to this subtile reference.” “The money,” said Whitey slowly and emphatically, “there was close on a hundred pounds on Lambaire’s table alone, to say nothing of the other tables. It was there when you came in--it was gone when you left.” Amber’s smile was angelic in its forgiveness. “May I suggest,” he said, “that I was not the only bad character present?” “Anyway, it doesn’t matter, the money part of it,” Whitey went on. “Lambaire doesn’t want to prosecute.” “Ha! ha!” said Amber, laughing politely. “He doesn’t want to prosecute; all he wants you to do is to leave young Sutton alone; Lambaire says that there isn’t any question of making money out of Sutton, it’s a bigger thing than that, Lambaire says----” “Oh, blow Lambaire!” said Amber, roused to wrath. “Stifle Lambaire, my Whitey! he talks like the captain of the Forty Thieves. Go back to your master, my slave, and tell him young Ali Baba Amber is not in a condition of mind to discuss a workin’ arrangement----”