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Page 12
"I got tired of waiting. You are half an hour over the time, Vic. I
thought of going to your rooms."
"I slept later than I intended," Nevill replied. "I had a night of it."
"So had I--a night of sleeplessness."
The Honorable Bertie Raven, second son of the Earl of Runnymede, might
have stepped out of one of Poole's fashion-plates, so far as dress was
concerned. But there was a strained look on his handsome, patrician
face, and in his blue eyes, that told of a gnawing mental anxiety. He
linked arms with his companion, and drew him to the edge of the
pavement.
"Is it all right?" he asked, pleadingly and hurriedly. "Were you able to
fix the thing up for me?"
"You are sure there is no other way, Bertie?"
"None, Vic. I have until this evening, and then--"
"Don't worry. I saw Benjamin and Company yesterday."
"And they will accommodate me?"
"Yes, at my request."
"You mean for your indorsement on the bill?" the lad exclaimed,
blushing. "Vic, you're a trump. You're the best fellow that ever lived,
and I can't tell you how grateful I am. God only knows what a weight
you've lifted from my mind. I'm going to run steady after this, and with
economy I can save enough out of my allowance--"
"My dear boy, you are wasting your gratitude over a trifle. Could I
refuse so simple a favor to a friend?"
"I don't know any one else who would have done as much, Vic. I was in an
awful hole. Will--will they give me plenty of time?"
"As much as you like. And, I say, Bertie, this affair must be quite
_entre nous_. There are plenty of chaps--good fellows, too--who would
like to use my name occasionally. But one must draw the line--"
"I understand, Vic. I'll be mum as an oyster."
"Well, suppose we go and have the thing over," said Nevill, "and then
we'll lunch together."
They turned eastward, walking briskly, and a few minutes later they
entered a narrow court off Duke street, St. James. Through a dingy and
unpretentious doorway, unmarked by sign or plate, they passed into the
premises of Benjamin and Company. In a dark, cramped office, scantily
furnished, they found an elderly Jewish gentleman seated at a desk.
Without delay, with a smoothness that spoke well for the weight and
influence of Victor Nevill's name, the little matter of business, as the
Jew smilingly called it, was transacted. A three-months' bill for five
hundred pounds was drawn up for Bertie's signature and Nevill's
indorsement. The lad hesitated briefly, then wrote his name in a bold
hand. He resisted the allurements of some jewelry, offered him in part
payment, and received the amount of the bill, less a prodigious discount
for interest. The Jew servilely bowed his customers out.
The Honorable Bertie's face was grave and serious as he walked toward
Piccadilly with his friend; he vaguely realized that he had taken the
first step on a road that too frequently ends in disgrace and ruin. But
this mood changed as he felt the rustling bank notes in his pocket. The
world had not looked so bright for many a day.
"I never knew the thing was so easy," he said. "What a good fellow you
are, Vic! You've made a new man of me. I can pay off those cursed
gambling losses, and a couple of the most pressing debts, and have
nearly a hundred pounds over. But I wish I had taken that ruby bracelet
for Flora--it would have pleased her."
"Cut Flora--that's my advice," replied Nevill.
"And jolly good advice, too, Vic. I'll think about it seriously. But
where will you lunch with me?"
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