In the seclusion of his bedroom, he sat down to smoke a last cigarette and think the thing over in all its aspects. He could see no way out of his difficulties. The thought had something of the dull persistency of a toothache. It refused to leave him. If only this had happened at Oxford, he knew of twenty kindly men who would have rallied round him, and placed portions of their fathers' money at his disposal. But this was July. He would not see Oxford again for months. And, in the meantime, Wesson would be pressing for his money.
"Oh, damn!" he said.
He had come to this conclusion for the fiftieth time, when the door opened, and his creditor appeared in person. To Spennie, he looked like the embodiment of Fate, a sort of male Nemesis.
"I want to have a talk with you, Spennie," said Wesson, closing the door.
"Well?"
Wesson lit a cigarette, and threw the match out of the window before replying.
"Look here, Spennie," he said, "I want to marry Miss McEachern."
Spennie was in no mood to listen to the love affairs of other men.
"Oh!" he said.
"Yes. And I want you to help me."