A CAB from the London terminus speedily deposited Lord Stranleigh at his favorite club in Pall Mall. Two acquaintances coming down the steps nodded to him casually, so casually that the salutation, taken in conjunction with the lack of all interest displayed in the smoking room when he entered, caused him to realize that he had never been missed, and this indifference keeps a man from becoming too conceited when he has victoriously pitted his intelligence against bears or brigands in far-away corners of the earth, and lives to tell the tale, or keep quiet about it, as the case may be. As he was attired in the ordinary business suit that had done two days’ hard duty at Southampton, he could not commit the solecism of entering the dining room. Indeed, gleaming, snowy shirt fronts were so prevalent in the smoking room itself that he experienced the unaccustomed, but rather enjoyable feeling of being a wild and woolly pioneer, who had strayed by mistake into a stronghold of fashionable civilization. The dining room being forbidden ground, Stranleigh contented himself with a couple of sandwiches and a tankard of German beer. As he partook of this frugal fare, a broad shirt front bore down upon him that reminded him of the sail of a racing yacht. “Hello, Stranleigh,” said Sir William Grainger, the owner of the shirt front. “Remember me telling you last week that Flying Scud was sure of a place in the Maple-Durham stakes?” “I don’t remember having received that information from you,” replied Stranleigh. “Did Flying Scud pull it off, then?” “Pull it off? Why, the race isn’t run till tomorrow.” “Oh, I beg pardon, I had forgotten the date.” “Well, Stranleigh, I’ve got it straight that Flying Scud will romp in a winner. It’s a sure thing. Don’t you give it away, but act on the hint, and you won’t be sorry. Odds are twenty-five to one at the present moment, and for every blooming quid you put up, you’ll get a pony.” “That’s very attractive, Billy.” “Attractive? Why, it’s simply found money.” “Ah, well, such chances are not for me, Billy. I’ve had to pawn my evening togs in order to get a sandwich and a glass of beer. I’m a hornyhanded son of toil trying to pick up an honest living. Why don’t you follow my example, Billy, and do something useful? This deplorable habit of betting on the races will lead you into financial straits by and by, and what is worse, the gambling fever may become chronic if you don’t check it in time.” Sir William Grainger laughed joyously at this. He was a young man who had already run through a large patrimony left him by his father, and since that time had developed a genius for borrowing which would have done credit to Harriman, the railway king.