At the time of that foolish and weak-willed Bommaney’s disaster there were two or three I.O.U.’s for sums much more considerable than he could afford to part with in the hands of his fellow-members. Law is a necessity to human society. Even a band of brigands can’t hang together without it. Debt, outside the club, was by no means a thing to be harshly spoken of, but debt to a fellow-member was a literal millstone round a man’s neck, and would sink him out of sight in no time. The elder Barter had gone over to the majority, despatched by that street accident, and if the old man had known nothing of the young man’s courses, he had had it in his power to make him well-to-do. But he had paid his debts once at least, and had more than once had occasion to grieve over the boy’s handling of the firm’s money, and so had made his will entirely in his wife’s favour, leaving his son dependent upon her good graces. The mother was disposed to be a little sterner than the father had been. Perhaps if young Barter had dreaded her less poor Bommaney’s fallen notes might have been returned to him. But, to get on with the story, the young man’s chief creditor at the club was one Steinberg, a gentleman whose time appeared to be absolutely at his own disposal, though he was known by some of his fellow-members to have an address in Hatton Garden, and to be more or less of a diamond merchant there. He often carried about with him, in a pocket-book, or in neat little packages of grocer’s gay paper, borne in the waistcoat-pocket, a collection of gems of considerable value, and would show them to his intimates with the _insouciance_ of a man who was accustomed to handling things of price. He never was without money, made little journeys at times, which rarely took him away from town for more than a day or two, and was, almost always, wholly unoccupied except for the cards. Now young Barter had a prodigious idea of this gentleman’s astuteness. He had no particular belief in his honesty, and he believed him, not altogether unreasonably as the sequel proved, to be initiated into most of the mysteries of modern rascality. This was merely a general notion, based upon statements made by Steinberg himself, and supported by the opinion of his intimates. Nobody spoke ill of Steinberg; it was only understood that there was no move upon the board with which he was not familiar. Young Barter, meeting him one evening at the club, whilst Bommaney’s disappearance was still a fresh topic of town conversation, spoke to him about it, with an assurance clearly begotten of practice. ‘Now, look here, Steinberg,’ he said, in his open and engaging way. ‘Suppose you’d nobbled those notes, what should you do with ‘em?’ Perhaps Mr. Steinberg resented the form of this inquiry. But be that as it may, he responded with some tartness, ‘Suppose you’d nobbled them?’ At this chance thrust young Barter turned curiously red and white, and had some ado to recover that open smile of his.