“I don’t know at what amount he acknowledges the debt,” I pointed out.
“But we’ve told you, haven’t we? One thousand one hundred and ten pounds.”
“That’s according to your reckoning. He may add up differently, you know,” I said, with a doubtful smile.
“You mean that you doubt us, eh?” asked Reckitt a trifle angrily.
“Not in the least,” I assured him, with a smile. “If the game is fair, then the loss is fair also. A good sportsman like my friend never objects to pay what he has lost.”
“But you evidently object to pay for him, eh?” he sneered.
“I do not,” I protested. “If it were double the amount I would pay it. Only I first want to know what he actually owes.”
“That he’ll tell you when he returns. Yet I can’t see why you should object to make out the cheque now, and hand it to us on his arrival. I’ll prepare the receipt, at any rate. I, for one, want to get off to bed.”
And the speaker sat down in one of the chairs at the card-table, and wrote out a receipt for the amount, signing it “Charles Reckitt” across the stamp he stuck upon it.