“Suppose, captain,” he said affably, “we leave the matter open for a few days.  This is a thing that can’t be rushed.  I’ll feel the pulse of my friends and yours, and when we get the lay of the land, the affair can be accomplished much more easily.”

“Well, that’s better,” returned McBane, somewhat mollified,—­“if you’ll do that.”

“To be sure I will,” replied Tom easily, too much relieved to resent, if not too preoccupied to perceive, the implied doubt of his veracity.

McBane ordered and paid for more drinks, and they parted on amicable terms.

“We’ll let these notes stand for the time being, Tom,” said McBane, with significant emphasis, when they separated.

Delamere winced at the familiarity.  He had reached that degree of moral deterioration where, while principles were of little moment, the externals of social intercourse possessed an exaggerated importance.  McBane had never before been so personal.

He had addressed the young aristocrat first as “Mr. Delamere,” then, as their acquaintance advanced, as “Delamere.”  He had now reached the abbreviated Christian name stage of familiarity.  There was no lower depth to which Tom could sink, unless McBane should invent a nickname by which to address him.  He did not like McBane’s manner,—­it was characterized by a veiled insolence which was exceedingly offensive.  He would go over to the club and try his luck with some honest player,—­perhaps something might turn up to relieve him from his embarrassment.

He put his hand in his pocket mechanically,—­and found it empty!  In the present state of his credit, he could hardly play without money.

A thought struck him.  Leaving the hotel, he hastened home, where he found Sandy dusting his famous suit of clothes on the back piazza.  Mr. Delamere was not at home, having departed for Belleview about two o’clock, leaving Sandy to follow him in the morning.

“Hello, Sandy,” exclaimed Tom, with an assumed jocularity which he was very far from feeling, “what are you doing with those gorgeous garments?”

“I’m a-dustin’ of ’em, Mistuh Tom, dat’s w’at I’m a-doin’.  Dere’s somethin’ wrong ‘bout dese clo’s er mine—­I don’ never seem ter be able ter keep ’em clean no mo’.  Ef I b’lieved in dem ole-timey sayin’s, I’d ‘low dere wuz a witch come here eve’y night an’ tuk ’em out an’ wo’ ’em, er tuk me out an’ rid me in ’em.  Dere wuz somethin’ wrong ’bout dat cakewalk business, too, dat I ain’ never unde’stood an’ don’ know how ter ’count fer, ‘less dere wuz some kin’ er dev’lishness goin’ on dat don’ show on de su’face.”

“Sandy,” asked Tom irrelevantly, “have you any money in the house?”

“Yas, suh, I got de money Mars John give me ter git dem things ter take out ter Belleview in de mawnin.”

“I mean money of your own.”

“I got a qua’ter ter buy terbacker wid,” returned Sandy cautiously.

“Is that all?  Haven’t you some saved up?”