“Oh no, it is not, sir; the game’s been going on for close upon two years, only my gentleman here has been too clever to be caught. There’s over two thou, been discounted. It’s all tight.”
“Fred,” cried Max, “why don’t you knock this lying scoundrel down?”
“Don’t want to bruise my knuckles,” said Fred carelessly. “There, the game’s up, and I’m sick of it.”
“What?” cried Max.
“It’s all right,” said Fred callously. “I had the cake, so I must pay for it.”
“Reprobate!” cried Max furiously: “do you dare to own to my face that this is true?”
“True enough,” said Fred, taking out his cigar-case. “I can smoke, I suppose, constable?”
“Oh yes, sir, and make much of it,” said the man, grinning. “I don’t suppose you’ll get another—not just yet.”
“Good heavens, that it should come to this!” cried Max, raising his hands toward the ceiling. “Lost, depraved, reckless boy! you bring down your father’s grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.”
“What!” shrieked Fred, with a sneering laugh.