"Then what's he here for?" retorted another man whose loss amounted to a few hundreds, but who was more excited and venomous than those who had many thousands at stake. "He's all right. He's a lord—a pretty lord!—and I'm told the gentleman he's next to is his future father-in-law, and is rolling in money—"
"Order! order!" called Griffenberg.
But the man declined to be silenced.
"Oh, it's all very well to call 'Order!' But I've a question to ask. I want to know whether it's true that Sir Stephen—blow 'Lord Highcliffe,' Sir Stephen's good enough for me!—made over a hundred thousand pounds to his son, the young gentleman sitting there. Some of us is ruined by this company, and we don't see why we should be sheared while Lord Highcliffe gets off with a cool hundred thousand. I ask the question and I wait for an answer."
Stafford rose, his pale, handsome face looking almost white above his black frock-coat and black tie.
"Sit down! Don't answer him," said Griffenberg.
"It is quite true," he said. "The money—a hundred thousand pounds—was given to me. It was given to me when my father"—his voice broke for a moment—"was in a position to give it, was solvent—"
"I said so, didn't I?" yelled the man who had put the question.
"Order! order!" said Griffenberg.
"And I am informed that the gift was legal, that it cannot be touched—"