"What's the scheme?" Felixstowe demanded. "It'll have to be a devilish clever one to land him."

"It need not necessarily be financial," Montague pointed out, twirling his black moustache. "There are other ways of teaching a man a lesson, and these two boys have something of their own to get back, something that money won't pay for. Men with a six-figure balance at their banker's have had to face ruin before now."

"Count me on the other side of the hedge," Felixstowe declared promptly. "I wouldn't hurt a hair of Jacob Pratt's head. One of the best-natured little bounders I ever knew."

Mason nodded.

"Fade away, Felix," he enjoined. "You're not in this show."

Felixstowe left the restaurant and, crossing the courtyard, seated himself in a disreputable little two-seated car jammed between two dignified limousines, in which, after a fierce and angry toot, he sped out into the Strand. With very scant regard to the amenities of the traffic laws, and stonily deaf to the warning cries of a policeman, he threaded his way in and out of the stream of vehicles, shot across into Duncannon Street, and, with the blasphemous cries of a motor-omnibus driver still in his ears, pulled up before Jacob Pratt's offices at the lower end of Regent Street. Jacob, who had just returned from luncheon, welcomed him with a nod and indicated the easy-chair, into which the young man sank with the air of one who has earned repose.

"Old top," he announced, "they're getting ready to put it across you."

"Who are?" Jacob asked.

"The great Dane Montague, fresh from his city triumphs, Joe Hartwell, the American shark, and Philip Mason."

Jacob smiled a little contemptuously.

"I dare say they'd like to do me a bad turn if they could!"

The young man extended his hand for Jacob's case, took out a cigarette and tapped it upon the desk, lit it, and subsided still farther into the depths of his chair.

"Listen," he continued, "this is no idle gossip I bring you. Five minutes ago I left the trio at the Milan, discussing over several empty bottles of Pommery and a badly hurt bottle of '68 brandy no less a subject than your undoing."

"Any specific method?" Jacob enquired.

"When I declined to join the enterprise, they dried up. All the same they mean mischief," Felixstowe declared emphatically.

"But why should you think that they can hurt me?"

"Because you are on the straight and they are on the cross," was the well-considered reply. "If three men of their brains mean mischief, well, they're worth watching. They know the dirty ways and you don't.

The old game, you know--a feint in the front and a stab in the back.

Keep your weather eye open, Jacob. Beware of them, whether they bring gifts or thunderbolts."

"Anyway, it's very friendly of you to come and warn me," Jacob said gratefully.

"Not at all, old bean. I say, when are you going to get me a job?"

"What sort of a job do you want?"

"Your private secretary, couple of thou a year, and one of these cadaverous, ink-smudged chaps to do the work. What-ho!"

"You're modest!"

"That's what the governor says. He was on to me about you yesterday.

Coming the man-of-the-world stunt, you know. Hand on my shoulder with a fatherly grip. 'Jack,' he said solemnly, 'there's one golden rule which people in our position must never forget. Make use of your friends.'"

"And relations," Jacob murmured.

The young man grinned.

"To tell you the truth," he said, "the old man overshot the bolt a bit there. Done 'em all in the eye for several thou of the best. I fancy he's going to seek the seclusion of a distant clime for a month or two.... But as I was saying, he's always on to me about you. 'My boy,'

he said, in his best Lord Chesterfield manner, 'you have contracted a valuable acquaintance with that very personable and shrewd young financier whom you introduced to us at Ascot. It rests with you to see that that acquaintance is made of profit to the family.'"

"I am afraid," Jacob observed, "that in that way I have been rather a disappointment."

"The governor isn't easily discouraged," Felixstowe replied, "and the mater's got something up her sleeve for you. But placing their own interests in the background, as my revered sire pointed out, it is certainly, in his opinion, up to you to find me a job."

"You can go into the office and file letters, at three pounds a week, whenever you like," Jacob suggested.

The young man picked himself up in hurt fashion.

"See whether we win our heat this afternoon against the Crimson Sashes," he said. "I've a couple of ponies on, which ought to keep me going till Thursday, if we win. Shall I tool you down to Ranelagh, old chap?"

"What, in the ba.s.sinet I saw you in yesterday? There were three policemen running down St. James's Street after you."

"I can make her rip," the young man promised. "Come on."

"Not I!" Jacob replied, with a shudder. "Besides, you'd expect me to pay the fines."

"So long, then," Felixstowe concluded, as he picked up his hat and turned to go. "Keep your weather eye open. If I lose the match, I'll probably drop in for that post."

The young man, after a violent series of explosions from his reluctantly started engine, shot into Pall Mall and disappeared in a cloud of smoke. Jacob watched him from the window with a smile upon his lips. When he resumed his seat, however, the smile had vanished.

He sat with his head resting upon his left hand, idly sketching upon a corner of the blotting pad. Presently he rang the bell for Dauncey.

"d.i.c.k," he said, "Lord Felixstowe has just brought me a warning."

"A warning," Dauncey repeated.

"It appears," Jacob went on, "that in the course of various insignificant adventures which have occurred to me during the last few months, I have made enemies. Mr. Dane Montague, Philip Mason, and Joe Hartwell are out on the warpath against me."

"Financially?" Dauncey asked, with an incredulous smile.

Jacob shook his head.

"I think they've had enough of that. According to Felixstowe, they're plotting something a little lower down. Keep an eye on me, d.i.c.k, if beautiful woman inveigles, or a ragged messenger from a starving father tries to lure me into the slums."

Dauncey declined to take the matter lightly.

"You haven't a thing to do for four days," he remarked. "Why don't you go down to Marlingden and see how the new 'Mrs. Fitzpatricks' are blooming?"

"It's an idea, d.i.c.k," Jacob declared. "I'm sick of town, anyway.

Telephone Mrs. Harris and say I'm coming, and order the car around in half an hour. You can stay here till closing time and come across and see me after supper."

The telephone tinkled at Jacob's elbow. He picked up the receiver and listened for a moment. His own share of the conversation was insignificant.

"Of course you can," he said. "Certainly, I shall be here.... In five minutes?... Yes!"