Moved by his friend’s kind appeal, the wretched young man confessed his troubles, speaking in dull, hopeless tones.  It was the old story—­a brief career on the road to ruin, from start to finish.  A woman was at the bottom of it—­when is it otherwise?  Bertie had not reformed when he had the chance; Flora, the chorus-girl of the Frivolity, had exercised too strong an influence over him.  His income would scarcely have kept her in flowers, and to supply her with jewels and dinners and a hundred other luxuries, as well as to repay money lost at cards, he had plunged deeper into the books of Benjamin and Company, hoping each time that some windfall would stave off disaster.  Disregarding the advice of a few sincere friends, he had continued his mad course of dissipation.  And now the blow had fallen—­sooner than he had reason to expect.  A bill for a large amount was due that very day, and Benjamin and Company refused to renew it; they demanded both interest and principal, and would give no easier terms.

“You’d better let me have that,” Bertie concluded, desperately, pointing to the pistol.

Jimmie kicked the weapon under the table, put his hands deep into the pockets of his dressing gown, and whistled thoughtfully.

“Yes, it’s bad,” he said.  “So you’ve gone to the Jews!  You ought to have known better—­but that’s the way with you chaps who are fed with silver spoons.  I’m not a saint myself—­”

“Are you going to preach?” put in Bertie, sullenly.

“No; my little lecture is over.  Cheer up and face the music, my boy.  It’s not as bad as you think.  Surely your father will get you out of the scrape.”

“Do you suppose I would tell him?” Bertie cried, savagely.  “That would be worse than—­well, you know what I was going to do.  It’s just because of the governor that I can’t bear to face the thing.  He has paid my debts three times before, and he vowed that if I ran up any more bills he would ship me off to one of his ranches in Western America.  He will keep his word, too.”

“Ranch life isn’t bad,” said Jimmie.

“Don’t talk about it!  I would rather kill myself than go out there, away from England and all that one cares for.  You know how it is, old man, don’t you?  London is the breath of life to me, with its clubs and theaters, and suppers, and jolly good fellows, and—­”

“And Flora!” Jimmie supplemented drily.

“D—­n Flora!  She threw up the Friv yesterday and slipped off to the Continent with Dozy Molyneaux.  I’m done with her, anyway!  But what does it all matter?  I’m ruined, and I must go under.  Give me a drink, old chap—­a stiff one.”

“You can’t have it, Bertie.  Now, don’t get riled—­listen to me.  Where was your father while you were going the pace so heavily?”

“In Scotland—­at Runnymede Castle.  He’s there still, and knows nothing of what I’ve been doing.  I dare say he thinks I’ve been living comfortably on my income—­a beggarly five hundred a year!”