"Entirely: a tall young man with an ugly mouth; rather fancies himself, I should say: a bit of a bounder. You recognise this sketch?"
"Perhaps ..." Penfield murmured thoughtfully.
"His name?"
"Maybe he wouldn't thank me for telling you that."
"Very well. Now then: why and how are you going to separate me from my winnings?"
"By force," said Mr. Penfield with engaging candour. "It desolates me to descend to rough-neck methods, but I am a larger, stronger man than you, Mr.—"
"Sybarite," said the little man, flushing, "P.—by the grace of God!—Sybarite."
"Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Sybarite.... But before we lose our tempers, what do you say to a fair proposition: leave me what you have won to-night, and I'll pay it back to the last cent with interest in less than six months."
P. Sybarite shook his head: "I'm sorry."
The dark blood surged into Penfield's cheeks. "You won't accept my word—?"