The Viscount (starting). "Carnaby! Why what the devil put him into your head? Carnaby's never seen her."
Barnabas. "Indeed, I think it rather more than likely."
The Viscount (crushing the bit of bread suddenly in his fist). "Carnaby! But I tell you he hasn't—he's never been near this place."
Barnabas. "There you are quite wrong."
The Viscount (flinging himself back in his chair). "Beverley, what the devil are you driving at?"
Barnabas. "I mean that he was here this morning."
The Viscount. "Carnaby? Here? Impossible! What under heaven should make you think so?"
"This," said Barnabas, and held out a small, crumpled piece of paper. The Viscount took it, glanced at it, and his knife clattered to the floor.
"Sixty thousand pounds!" he exclaimed, and sat staring down at the crumpled paper, wide-eyed. "Sixty thousand!" he repeated. "Is it sixty or six, Bev? Read it out," and he thrust the torn paper across to Barnabas, who, taking it up, read as follows:—
—felicitate you upon your marriage with the lovely heiress, Lady M., failing which I beg most humbly to remind you, my dear Sir Mortimer Carnaby, that the sixty thousand pounds must be paid back on the day agreed upon, namely July 16,