"Look here, uncle. I'd better tell you at once. I shall need another
fifty to make me square. But I'll pay you back--on my honour--"

"Bah! Your honour! Pay me back. I know what that means. So it's a hundred
pounds you want. Very well. You shall have your hundred pounds. But
I solemnly warn you that it's the last penny I intend to pay for your
extravagance. As for that waster of a Captain What's-his--"

The boy flushes to the roots of his light, wavy hair.

"I say, uncle. He's not a waster. He's the finest fellow in the regiment.
I can't allow you--Look here--never mind the money. The jeweller knows
it's all right. I'd rather--"

He stops. The words won't come. He gazes at his uncle helplessly. Mr.
Reiss goes slowly to the writing-table and sits down. Taking a blank
cheque from a pocket-book he always carries, he fills it in and passes
it to the boy without speaking.

"I don't like taking it, uncle. I don't, really--"

Mr. Reiss half turns round. He still says nothing, he does not even
grunt. He knows that there are times when silence is golden. Moreover,
he knows that money talks.

A few minutes later Mr. Adolf Reiss is again sitting alone, gazing
into the fire. And he has another grievance against Life.

* * * * *