"What's up?" asked Jack, shortly. He thrust the letter into his pocket and took out his pipe.
"Well——" Cyril hesitated a moment to ransack his brain for some reasonable pretext; then it occurred to him that it was nearly a certainty his listener's trouble was a pecuniary one. To feign a like predicament for himself might evoke Jack's confidence.
"Well," said he, "I want you to lend me twenty-five pounds. I'm hard pressed for it at this moment."
Madge had approached the window to speak to Jack. She caught Cyril Wayne's remark, and, drawing back at once, turned away unperceived by both of the young men.
Jack fell an easy prey to the trap that had been laid for him. He gazed at Cyril in astonishment and let the match he had lighted die out in his hand.
"HE GAZED AT CYRIL IN ASTONISHMENT."
"Lend you twenty-five pounds? Great Scot!" he exclaimed.
"Yes."
"Twenty-five pounds! You've come to the wrong shop this time, old man!" Then he suddenly lowered his voice and bent his head forward, anxiously. "Can you tell me where I can get just eight times that amount?" he asked. "I want it badly."