“I will telegraph to my uncle, the Marquis of Stoyle, while you are eating it,” he said; but the man looked up reproachfully.
“Will you send your man, my lord?” he said, significantly, and Lord Cecil started, for he realized that he was a prisoner. He sent the telegram, requesting the marquis to order his bankers to pay the sum to Lord Cecil’s order; then went and stood by the window and looked out on the street; and in a few minutes he had forgotten the presence of the officer and all pertaining to him.
“Mr. Garland—Miss Marlowe,” rang through his brain to the exclusion of anything else.
A couple of hours passed, and the return telegram arrived. It was short and emphatic:
Sorry. Quite impossible.—Stoyle.
Lord Cecil read it, and, with a grim smile, tossed it across the table to the officer, who was enjoying himself with one of Cecil’s choicest cigars and a glass of whisky and water. He looked aghast.
“Good gracious, my lord! What’s to be done?”
“I don’t know,” said Lord Cecil, shrugging his shoulders, very much as the marquis might have done.
“But—look here, my lord, this is getting serious! Isn’t there any other friend? Surely, your lordship must know ever so many friends as would only too gladly lend you the money! Think, my lord!” Lord Cecil shook his head. “I am afraid it is of no use thinking,” he said; “I cannot pay the money, and——” He leaned against the window, and smiled. “But there is no hurry, I suppose? You can finish your drink.”
Before the man could reply, a voice floated through the open window.