"And I do not choose," he concluded.
CHAPTER XXIV
Peter Phipps and his nephew dined together on the last night of the year at a well-chosen table at Giro's restaurant in Monte Carlo. There were long-necked and gold-foiled bottles upon the table and a menu which had commanded the respect of the maître d'hôtel whose province it was to supply their wants. Nevertheless, neither of the two men had the appearance of being entirely satisfied with life.
"Those figures from the Official Receiver," Phipps remarked, as he filled his glass with wine and passed the bottle across the table, "are scarcely what we had a right to expect, eh, Stanley?"
"They are simply scandalous," Rees declared gloomily. "One does not speculate with one's own money. I should have thought that any one with the least knowledge of finance would understand that. This man seems to think he has a lien upon our private fortunes."
"Not only that," Peter Phipps groaned, "but he's attaching as much as he can get hold of. And to think of that old devil, Skinflint Martin, scenting the trouble and getting off to Buenos Ayres! The best part of half a million he got off with. Pig!—Stanley, this may be our last season at Monte Carlo. We shall have to draw in. Every year it gets more difficult to make money."
"One month more of the British and Imperial," Stanley Rees sighed, "and we should both have been millionaires."
"And as it is," his uncle groaned, "I am beginning to get a little nervous about our hotel bill."
* * * * *
With a benedictory wave of his hand, an all-welcoming smile, and a backward progress which suggested distinction bordering upon royalty, the chief maître d'hôtel ushered his distinguished patrons to the table which had been reserved for them. Josephine looked across the little sea of her favourite blue gentians and smiled at her husband.