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?"

"You are going to lunch with _me_," said Nevill, "at the Arlington."

* * * * *

In Wardour street, Soho, as many an enthusiastic collector has found out