“Jack speaking—Jack Marlowe,” exclaimed the distant voice. “Is that you, Owen? Your voice sounds different.”
“So does yours, a bit,” I said. “Voices often do on the ’phone. Where are you?”
“I’m out in Bayswater—Althorp House, Porchester Terrace,” my friend replied. “I’m in a bit of a tight corner. Can you come here? I’m so sorry to trouble you, old man. I wouldn’t ask you to turn out at this hour if it weren’t imperative.”
“Certainly I’ll come,” I said, my curiosity at once aroused. “But what’s up?”
“Oh, nothing very alarming,” he laughed. “Nothing to worry over. I’ve been playing cards, and lost a bit, that’s all. Bring your cheque-book; I want to pay up before I leave. You understand. I know you’ll help me, like the good pal you always are.”
“Why, of course I will, old man,” was my prompt reply.
“I’ve got to pay up my debts for the whole week—nearly a thousand. Been infernally unlucky. Never had such vile luck. Have you got it in the bank? I can pay you all right at the end of next week.”
“Yes,” I said, “I can let you have it.”
“These people know you, and they’ll take your cheque, they say.”