The two men’s eyes met, and the younger, a slight, mild-eyed youth with a listless chin, excused himself and presented himself at the elder’s table.

“Won’t you join us?” he said nervously.

Frederick Cavendish’s trim, bearded jaw tightened and he shook his head.  “They are not my people,” he said shortly, then retreating, begged, “John, when are you going to cut that sort out?”

“You make me weary!” the boy snapped.  “It’s easy enough for you to talk when you’ve got all the money—­that gives you an excuse to read me moral homilies every time I ask you for a dollar, but Miss La Rue is as good as any of your friends any day.”

The other controlled himself.  “What is it you want?” he demanded directly:  “Money?  If so, how much?”

“A hundred will do,” the younger man said eagerly.  “I lost a little on cards lately, and have to borrow.  To-night I met the girl——­”

Frederick Cavendish silenced him and tendered him the bills.  “Now,” he said gravely, “this is the last, unless—­unless you cut out such people as Celeste La Rue and others that you train with.  I’m tired of paying bills for your inane extravagances and parties.  I can curtail your income and what’s more, I will unless you change.”

“Cut me off?” The younger Cavendish’s voice took on an incredulous note.

The other nodded.  “Just that,” he said.  “You’ve reached the limit.”

For a moment the dissipated youth surveyed his cousin, then an angry flush mounted into his pasty face.

“You—­you—­” he stuttered, “—­you go to hell.”

Without another word the elderly Cavendish summoned the waiter, paid the bill, and walked toward the door.  John stared after him, a smile of derision on his face.  He had heard Cavendish threaten before.

“Your cousin seemed peeved,” suggested Miss La Rue.

“It’s his nature,” explained John.  “Got sore because I asked him for a mere hundred and threatened to cut off my income unless I quit you two.”

“You told him where to go,” Miss La Rue said, laughing.  “I heard you, but I don’t suppose he’ll go—­he doesn’t look like that kind.”

“Anyhow, I told him,” laughed John; then producing a large bill, cried:  “Drink up, people, they’re on me—­and goody-goody cousin Fred.”

When Frederick Cavendish reached the street and the fresh night air raced through his lungs he came to a sudden realisation and then a resolution.  The realisation was that since further pleading would avail nothing with John Cavendish, he needed a lesson.  The resolution was to give it to him.  Both strengthened his previous half-hearted desire to meet Westcott, into determination.

He turned the matter over in his mind as he walked along until reflection was ended by the doors of the College Club which appeared abruptly and took him in their swinging circle.  He went immediately to the writing-room, laid aside his things and sat down.  The first thing to do, he decided, was to obtain an attorney and consult him regarding the proper steps.  For no other reason than that they had met occasionally in the corridor he thought of Patrick Enright, a heavy-set man with a loud voice and given to wearing expensive clothes.