"I've been gambling — living beyond my means — doing all sorts of silly things. You can see for yourself that I'm pretty young. I suppose I ought to have known better… I've stopped all that now, but — two months ago I tried to get out of the mess. I gave a dud cheque. I tried to stay in hiding — I was working on this invention, and I knew I'd be able to pay everyone when I'd got it finished. But they found me last Friday. They've been pretty decent, in a way. They gave me till Wednesday noon to find the money. Otherwise —"
The Saint's voice broke, and he averted his face despairingly.
Mr. Parnock gazed down at the silvered ashtray, then at the letter which was still spread open on his blotter, and rubbed his smooth chin thoughtfully. He cleared his throat.
"Come, come!" he said paternally. "It isn't as bad as all that. With an asset like this invention of yours, you should have nothing to worry about."
"I told them all about it. They were just polite. Wednesday noon or nothing, and hard cash — no promises. I suppose they're right. But it's all so wrong! It's unjust!"
Simon stood up and shook his fists frantically at the ceiling; and Mr. Parnock coughed.
"Perhaps I could help," he suggested.
The Saint shook his head.
"That's what I came to see you about. It was just a desperate idea. I haven't got any friends who'd listen to me — I owe them all too much money. But now I've told you all about it, it all sounds so feeble and unconvincing. I wonder you don't send for the police right away."
He shrugged, and picked up his hat. Mr. Parnock, a cumbersome man, moved rather hastily to take it away from him and pat him soothingly on the shoulder.