“As much as you like.  And, I say, Bertie, this affair must be quite entre nous.  There are plenty of chaps—­good fellows, too—­who would like to use my name occasionally.  But one must draw the line—­”

“I understand, Vic.  I’ll be mum as an oyster.”

“Well, suppose we go and have the thing over,” said Nevill, “and then we’ll lunch together.”

They turned eastward, walking briskly, and a few minutes later they entered a narrow court off Duke street, St. James.  Through a dingy and unpretentious doorway, unmarked by sign or plate, they passed into the premises of Benjamin and Company.  In a dark, cramped office, scantily furnished, they found an elderly Jewish gentleman seated at a desk.

Without delay, with a smoothness that spoke well for the weight and 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 to the depletion of his pocket-book, there are sufficient antique treasures of every variety stored away in dingy shop windows and dingier rooms to furnish a small town.  Number 320, which by chance or design failed to display the name of its proprietor, differed from its neighbors in one marked respect.  Instead of the usual conglomerate mass, articles of value cheek by jowl with worthless rubbish, the long window contained some rare pieces of china and silver, an Italian hall-seat of richly carved oak, and half a dozen paintings by well-known artists of the past century, the authenticity of which was an excuse for the amount at which they were priced.