"If you will give me your check for that amount, you may go. Otherwise I am afraid I shall have to use you for a model."
"I have only £1200 in the bank," I replied, bursting into tears.
"It will suffice," said he. "Your terror will be worth £300 to me in a short story I am writing for the Manx Sunday Whirald."
Whereupon I wrote him a check for £1200 and made my escape.
"I'll expose you to the world!" I roared back at him in my wrath as I walked down the path to the road.
"Do," he cried. "I never object to a free advertisement. By-bye."
With that I left him, and hastened back to London to stop payment on the check; but in some fashion he got the better of me, for it happened to be on a bank holiday that I arrived, and ere I could give notice to the cashier to refuse to honor my draft it had been cashed.