“I presume,” he said, “that you chose your own profession.  You knew quite well there was no place in it for men with a sense of the higher morality.  It is a profession of gamblers and thieves.  If you’d won, you’d have thought yourself a smart fellow and pocketed your winnings fast enough.  Now that you’ve lost—­don’t whine.  You sat down willingly enough to play the game with me.  Don’t call me names because you lost.  This is no place for children.  Pocket your defeat, and be more careful next time.”

Nesbitt was silent for a moment.  Wingrave, cool and immovable, dominated him.  He gave a little laugh, and turned towards the door.

“Guess you’re right,” he declared; “we’ll let it go at that.”

Aynesworth followed him from the room.

“I’m awfully glad you’re out of the scrape,” he said.

Nesbitt caught him by the arm.

“Come right along,” he said.  “I haven’t had a drink in the daytime for a year, but we’re going to have a big one now.  I say, do you know how I got that money?”

Aynesworth shook his head.

“On easy terms, I hope.”

They sat down in the American Bar, and a colored waiter in a white linen suit brought them whisky and Apollinaris in tall tumblers.

“Listen,” Nesbitt said.  “My brain is on the reel still.  I went back to my office, and if it hadn’t been for the little girl, I should have brought a revolver by the way.  Old Johnny there waiting to see me, no end of a swell, Phillson, the uptown lawyer.  He went straight for me.

“‘Been dealing in Hardwells?’ he asked.

“I nodded.

“‘Short, eh?’

“‘Six hundred shares,’ I answered.  There was no harm in telling him for the Street knew well enough.

“‘Bad job,’ he said.  ‘How much does Wingrave want?’

“‘Shares at par,’ I answered.  ’It comes to close on fifty-seven thousand six hundred dollars.’

“‘I’m going to find you the money,’ he said.

“Then I can tell you the things in my office began to swim.  I’d an idea somehow that he was there as a friend, but nothing like this.  I couldn’t answer him.

“‘It’s a delicate piece of business,’ he went on.  ’In fact, the fewer questions you ask the better.  All I can say is there’s a chap in Wall Street got his eye on you.  Your old dad once helped him over a much worse place than this.  Anyhow, I’ve a check here for sixty thousand dollars, and no conditions, only that you don’t talk.’

“‘But when am I to pay it back?’ I gasped.

“’If my client ever needs it, and you can afford it, he will ask for it.’  Phillson answered.  ‘That’s all.’

“And before I could say another darned word, he was gone, and the check was there on my desk.”

Aynesworth sipped his whisky and Apollinaris, and lit a cigarette.

“And they say,” he murmured, “that romance does not exist in Wall Street.  You’re a lucky chap, Nesbitt.”