"D—n Flora! She threw up the Friv yesterday and slipped off to the Continent with Dozy Molyneaux. I'm done with her, anyway! But what does it all matter? I'm ruined, and I must go under. Give me a drink, old chap—a stiff one."
"You can't have it, Bertie. Now, don't get riled—listen to me. Where was your father while you were going the pace so heavily?"
"In Scotland—at Runnymede Castle. He's there still, and knows nothing of what I've been doing. I dare say he thinks I've been living comfortably on my income—a beggarly five hundred a year!"
"What amount is the bill that falls due to-day?"
"Seven hundred and fifty pounds, with interest."
"And there are others?"
"Yes; three more—all renewals."
"And the total sum? Can you give it to me?"
"What's the use?" Bertie muttered. "But if you want to know—" He took a bit of paper from his pocket. "I counted it up yesterday," he added. "I can't get clear of the Jews for less than twenty-five hundred pounds."
"It's a heavy sum!"