“Talking of the extra amount I will gain reminds me, Stranleigh, that if you will give me one more ten-pound note, the whole loot will be an even thousand at twenty-five to one, you know. I’ll pay it all back on Monday, but it seems a pity to miss such a chance, doesn’t it?”
“How wonderfully you can estimate the odds, Billy. If forty pounds will bring you a thousand, then, as you say, it would be a pity to miss such an opportunity. Well, here you are,” and he passed the fourth ten-pound note into the other’s custody.
Still Sir William lingered. Perhaps it would have been more merciful if his lordship had demurred rather strenuously against accommodating him with the so-called loan. The sight of the other’s notes now returning to his pocket filled him with envy. He felt some remnant of reluctance in attempting to increase his acquisition, so he put it in another form:
“I say, Stranleigh, if you’d like me to lay a bit on for you, so far as Flying Scud is concerned, I’ll do it with pleasure.”
“Thanks, old man, but I shan’t trouble you. I intend to put on some money, but it will be against Flying Scud.”
“What! have you heard anything?” cried Sir William in alarm, but the other interrupted——
“I know nothing about the horse at all, but I know a good deal about your luck, and I’ll have that forty pounds back on Monday, without troubling you, except by betting against you.” Sir William laughed a little, shrugged his shoulders, and walked away with the loot.
“Yes,” murmured Stranleigh to himself, “this is dear old London again, sure enough. The borrowing of money has begun.”
In spite of being touched for varying amounts, Lord Stranleigh enjoyed to the full his return to the Metropolis, and for many days strolled down Piccadilly with the easy grace of a man about town, the envy of less fortunate people who knew him. This period of indolence was put an end to by the receipt of a telegram from Mackeller. That capable young man had sent his message from the northwest corner of Brittany, having ordered the Rajah to be run into the roadstead of Brest. The communication informed Stranleigh that Mackeller had hoisted up a portion of the cargo, and placed it aboard a lugger, which was to sail direct for Portreath. This transhipment of part of the cargo had brought Plimsoll’s mark on the side of the Rajah into view once more, and the steamer might now enter the harbor of Plymouth without danger of being haled before the authorities, charged with overloading. He expected to reach Plymouth next day.
Stranleigh was lunching at home that day because in the morning he had been favored with a telephone call, and on putting the receiver to his ear, had distinguished the still, small voice of Conrad Schwartzbrod, who appeared to be trying to say something with reference to the Rajah. Stranleigh was afflicted with a certain dislike of the telephone, and often manifested an impatience with its working which he did not usually show when confronted with the greater evils of life, so after telling the good Mr. Schwartzbrod to stand farther away from the transmitter, to come closer, to speak louder, he at last admitted he could not understand what was being said, and invited the financier to call upon him at his house that afternoon at half past two, if what he had to say was important enough to justify a journey from the city to the West End.