“Not a pice,” was the astounding reply. “No, I was badly hit over the Liverpool, and of course I had no right to appropriate the funds in such a way. You need not tell me that. Gambling is a disease with me, and I cannot help it; it’s worse than drink—comes far more expensive. There ought to be a retreat for confirmed gamblers such as I am, same as for dipsomaniacs. I may as well make a clean breast of it. I hoped to land a large stake, and make all square, but that brute ‘Queer Customer’ curled up and ran a cur in the finish, and put us all in a hole. I would give ten pounds to get a shot at him! I’ve had confounded bad luck, and I must say in my own defence, that it was all your fault, from first to last. You put temptation in my way, you handed over the accounts and cheque-book, and asked no questions; and, by Jove!” he concluded with an air of virtuous resignation, “I’ve told you no lies. I am cleaned out.”
“And supposing your Simla schemes fall through, and you are not paid, and your book on Goodwood is on the wrong side—what will you do?”
Clarence simply shrugged his broad shoulders.
“How are we to pay our bills here?” inquired the other, gravely.
“I don’t know.”
“And our passage money?”
“I don’t know,” he repeated doggedly.
“Surely you must have some idea?” urged Jervis, with a touch of asperity.
“Yes, you can write to the uncle for fresh supplies.”
“No, I will not do that,” returned the uncle’s heir, who was rapidly losing his patience.