The girl rose. Kirkwood turned. "Mr. Brentwick—" he began.
But Brentwick begged his patience with an eloquent gesture. "Sir," he said, somewhat austerely, "permit me to put a single question: Have you by any chance paid your cabby?"
"Why—" faltered the younger man, with a flaming face. "I—why, no—that is—"
The other quietly put his hand upon a bell-pull. A faint jingling sound was at once audible, emanating from the basement.
"How much should you say you owe him?"
"I—I haven't a penny in the world!"
The shrewd eyes flashed their amusement into Kirkwood's. "Tut, tut!" Brentwick chuckled. "Between gentlemen, my dear boy! Dear me! you are slow to learn."
"I'll never be contented to sponge on my friends," explained Kirkwood in deepest misery. "I can't tell when—"
"Tut, tut! How much did you say?"
"Ten shillings—or say twelve, would be about right," stammered the American, swayed by conflicting emotions of gratitude and profound embarrassment.