The solicitor looked blank.

“Of course,” he said, “I’ll do what I can, if you like, but I may as well tell you at once that I don’t think I should have a ghost of a chance of raising the whole amount.”

“I suppose,” Tavernake inquired, thoughtfully, “your firm couldn’t do anything?”

“We could do something, certainly,” the solicitor answered, “on account of our own clients.  We might, perhaps, manage up to five thousand pounds.  That would still leave us wanting seven, however, and I scarcely see where we could get it.”

Tavernake was silent for a few moments.

“You haven’t quarreled with your friend, have you?” the solicitor asked.

“No, there has been no quarrel,” Tavernake replied.  “I have another reason.”

“If I were you, I’d try and forget it,” his friend advised.  “To tell you the truth, I have been feeling rather anxious about this affair.  It’s a big thing, you know, and the profit is as sure as the dividend on Consols.  I should hate to have that little bounder Dowling get in and scoop it up.”

“It’s a fine investment,” admitted Tavernake, “and, as you say, there isn’t the slightest risk.  That’s why I was hoping you might have been able to manage it without my calling upon my friend.”

Mr. Martin shook his head.

“It isn’t so easy to convince other people.  All the same, I don’t want to get left.  If you’ll take my advice, you’ll go and call on your friend at once, and see exactly how matters stand.  If everything’s O.K. and you can induce him to part a few hours before it is absolutely necessary, I must confess that it would take a load off my mind.  I don’t like these affairs that have to be concluded at the last possible moment.”

“Well,” Tavernake agreed, “I must try what I can do, then.  There is nothing else fresh, I suppose?”

“Nothing,” the solicitor answered.  “Come back, if you can make any definite arrangement, or telephone.  The matter is really bothering me a little.  I don’t want to have the other people slip in now.” . . .

Tavernake, instead of obeying his first impulse and making his way direct to the Milan Court, walked to the flat in Kingsway, climbed up the stone steps, and asked for Beatrice.  She met him at her own door, fully dressed.

“My dear Leonard!” she exclaimed, in surprise.  “What an early caller!”

“I want a few words with you,” he said.  “Can you spare me five minutes?”

“You must walk with me to the theatre,” she replied, “I am just off to rehearsal.”

They descended the stairs together.

“I have something to tell you,” Tavernake began, “something to tell you which you won’t like to hear.”

“Something which I won’t like to hear,” she repeated, fearfully.  “Go on, Leonard.  It can’t be worse than it sounds.”

“I don’t know why I’ve come to tell you,” he went on.  “I never meant to.  It came into my mind all of a sudden and I felt that I must.  It has to do with your sister and the Marston Rise affair.”