Jocelyn Bellairs lay back in his seat with arms folded, and a scornful smile on his countenance. He did not care what conditions were imposed, and the higher the stake the better for him. He was so sure of the result.
Sir James Devlin had drawn out his tablets.
“The wager’s plain enough now,” quoth he. “Sir Jasper Standish wagers Mr. Jocelyn Bellairs that the girl, Pamela Pounce, will give him a dish of tea this day week, at an address hereafter to be determined, the said Pamela Pounce being then established under the protection of the said Jasper Standish. What are the stakes?”
“Oh, make it worth while!” eagerly cried Bellairs.
Devlin gave him a keen side-glance.
“’Tis scarce usual to make the stakes higher than you can meet, Mr. Bellairs.”
The young man flushed darkly. But before he could reply:
“Odds my life,” exclaimed Sir Jasper. “Let’s make it worth while! What say you to a thousand guineas?”
“Done!” cried Jocelyn eagerly. Then he added: “I’d like to make a stipulation. If Sir James loses, let him remit the rest of that mortgage first, whatever it is. I’ll be content with the residue.”
“’Pon my word, sir, that’s a strange proposal,” said Sir Jasper, staring with an air which gave him an odd resemblance to an incensed bull.