Barter opened the book and consulted its pages blindly for a while, and then the mist which seemed to obstruct brain and eyesight clearing away, he read the pages indicated. It set forth the principle that all moneys lost at games of skill or chance, or upon bets made within the limits of the club, were payable within four-and-twenty hours. It set forth further that debts not paid within that time might be brought under the notice of the Committee, who were empowered to act under Rule nine. Rule nine ordained the public posting of the defaulter’s name, his suspension in default of payment, and, in case of continued obduracy or poverty, his expulsion. ‘First and last, Steinberg,’ said the wretched criminal, who began to find the way of the transgressor unreasonably hard and thorny, ‘first and last, you’ve had a pretty tidy handful of money out of me.’ ‘Well, yes,’ said Steinberg tangibly. ‘Pretty fair.’ His very admission of this fact made Barter’s case seem hopeless to himself. If he had brow-beaten, or blustered, if he had shown anger or impatience, or had been querulous, there might have seemed to exist some slenderest chance for him. But Steinberg was so unmoved that he seemed immovable. ‘You’d better persuade her,’ he said, with a scarcely perceptible grin. Looking at Barter, and observing that he sat with his eyes still bent upon the book of rules, and head dejected, he allowed the grin to broaden. Barter, suddenly looking up at him, saw him smiling like a gargoyle, with a look of infinitely relishing cruelty and cunning. ‘You won’t find her hard to persuade, I’m sure,’ said Steinberg. ‘Come, now, I’ll talk business to you. I’ll take ten of ‘em for it, and cry quits, and I wouldn’t do that for anybody but a friend.’ The frank admission of the value of his own friendship was plainly legible in that gargoyle smile, and the unhappy Barter read it clearly. ‘I’ll--I’ll see what I can do with her,’ he said, with a face and voice of pure misery. ‘Do, my boy,’ said Steinberg, rising, and swinging the key of his chambers upon his forefinger, ‘see what you can do with her. I shan’t send any notification to the Committee before nine o’clock, old chap. You can trust me for that. You go off at once, old fellow, and see what you can do for her.’ The fraudulent possessor of the notes felt their burthen more than ever insupportable. He rose, and went his way with remorse and rage and the bitterness of baffled stratagem in his heart. His wounded mind soared to so lofty a height of egotism in its struggles that he positively found the impudence to curse Bom-maney for having dropped the notes in his office. Then he cursed himself for having taken them, and cursed Steinberg for robbing him, and so moved off in a condition quite pitiable to one who could find the understanding and the heart to pity him.