Mr. Thomasson grinned in a sickly fashion.  ‘I know that,’ he said.

‘Well, what is your idea?  What do you want?’

The tutor did not answer on the instant, but after stealing one or two furtive glances at Lord Almeric, looked down at the table, a nervous smile distorting his mouth.  At length, ‘I want—­her,’ he said; and passed his tongue furtively over his lips.

‘The girl?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh Lord!’ said Mr. Pomeroy, in a voice of disgust.

But the ice broken, Mr. Thomasson had more to say.  ‘Why not?’ he said plaintively.  ’I brought her here—­with all submission.  I know her, and—­and am a friend of hers.  If she is fair game for any one, she is fair game for me.  I have run a risk for her,’ he continued pathetically, and touched his brow, where the slight cut he had received in the struggle with Dunborough’s men showed below the border of his wig, ’and—­and for that matter, Mr. Pomeroy is not the only man who has bailiffs to avoid.’

‘Stuff me, Tommy, if I am not of your opinion!’ cried Lord Almeric.  And he struck the table with unusual energy.

Pomeroy turned on him in surprise as great as his disgust.  ‘What?’ he cried.  ’You would give the girl and her money—­fifty thousand—­to this old hunks!’

‘I?  Not I!  I would have her myself!’ his lordship answered stoutly.  ’Come, Pomeroy, you have won three hundred of me, and if I am not to take a hand at this, I shall think it low!  Monstrous low I shall think it!’ he repeated in the tone of an injured person.  ’You know.  Pom, I want money as well as another—­want it devilish bad—­’

‘You have not been a Sabbatarian, as I was for two months last year,’ Mr. Pomeroy retorted, somewhat cooled by this wholesale rising among his allies, ‘and walked out Sundays only for fear of the catchpolls.’

‘No, but—­’

’But I am not now, either.  Is that it?  Why, d’ye think, because I pouched six hundred of Flitney’s, and three of yours, and set the mare going again, it will last for ever?’

’No, but fair’s fair, and if I am not in this, it is low.  It is low, Pom,’ Lord Almeric continued, sticking to his point with abnormal spirit.  ’And here is Tommy will tell you the same.  You have had three hundred of me—­’

‘At cards, dear lad; at cards,’ Mr. Pomeroy answered easily.  ’But this is not cards.  Besides,’ he continued, shrugging his shoulders and pouncing on the argument, ‘we cannot all marry the girl!’

‘I don’t know,’ my lord answered, passing his fingers tenderly through his wig.  ‘I—­I don’t commit myself to that.’

‘Well, at any rate, we cannot all have the money!’ Pomeroy replied, with sufficient impatience.

‘But we can all try!  Can’t we, Tommy?’

Mr. Thomasson’s face, when the question was put to him in that form, was a curious study.  Mr. Pomeroy had spoken aright when he called it a chance in a hundred, in a thousand, in a million.  It was a chance, at any rate, that was not likely to come in Mr. Thomasson’s way again.  True, he appreciated more correctly than the others the obstacles in the way of success—­the girl’s strong will and wayward temper; but he knew also the humour which had now taken hold of her, and how likely it was that it might lead her to strange lengths if the right man spoke at the right moment.