Lord Felixstowe, who had paused at the table on his way through the restaurant, surveyed the little party without undue enthusiasm.
“Off it to-day, my children,” he announced. “I’m playing polo at Ranelagh this afternoon. Any one want to back the Crimson Sashes?”
Mr. Montague stretched out his hand and drew the young man a little nearer.
“Look here, Felixstowe,” he confided, “we’re talking about Pratt—Jacob Pratt. You know the little devil.”
“What about him?” his lordship enquired, helping himself to a cigar from the box on the table.
“Philip here, and Hartwell, have got it up against him hard. So have I. We think it’s about time he was taught a lesson. There might be something for you out of it.”
“What’s the scheme?” Felixstowe demanded. “It’ll have to be a devilish clever one to land him.”
“It need not necessarily be financial,” Montague pointed out, twirling his black moustache. “There are other ways of teaching a man a lesson, and these two boys have something of their own to get back, something that money won’t pay for. Men with a six-figure balance at their banker’s have had to face ruin before now.”
“Count me on the other side of the hedge,” Felixstowe declared promptly. “I wouldn’t hurt a hair of Jacob Pratt’s head. One of the best-natured little bounders I ever knew.”