"What a philanthropist you've been in your day!" said the burglar admiringly, as he examined them. "I wish I'd known you earlier. Ah!" and he pulled out a draft. "What's wrong with this?"
"That's another impecunious peer," said Sir John. "He proposed me for the Carlton," he added apologetically.
"Then may I be impecunious," replied the burglar. "Dicky is a millionaire in South America."
"I've not come across his name in that light," said the merchant dubiously.
"He's changed it. Calls himself Thompson now. This thing is worth its face value, and that's two thousand pounds. Why, man, you must tender it at once for payment."
For a moment the knight's face brightened.
"But wait a bit," continued the burglar. "There's a six-years' limit for presentation, isn't there? This was due March 12th, 1897, and it's now—oh, Great Scott!—it's now March 18th, 1903! Too late by a week! Old man, you are unlucky! Two thousand solid sovereigns missed by a week, and you wantin' 'em all the time. It's beastly hard lines. Do have a light."
But Sir John was too limp to smoke. "A millionaire in South America!" he gasped. "Why, he went out at my request to see if a concession I have there was worth anything. He reported adversely, and I've heard nothing about him since then."
"What is your concession?"
From the pile in front the knight found an imposing-looking parchment, decorated with the signature of a President and the seal of a State. He handed it to the burglar, who read it through carefully. Then he laid it down.