Lord Harrowby restored the necklace to his pocket and, crestfallen, gloomy, went back to the room above.
"Wouldn't loan me anything on it," he whispered to Minot. "I don't understand, really."
Thereafter Harrowby suffered the pain of watching others play. And while he watched, in the little office down-stairs, a scene of vital bearing on his future was enacted.
A short stocky man with a bullet-shaped head had pushed open the door on Messrs. Stacy and Wall. He stood, looking about him with a cynical smile.
"Hello, Tom," he said.
"Old Bill Huntley!" cried Stacy. "By gad, you gave me a turn. I forgot for a minute that you can't raid me down here."
"Them happy days is past," returned Mr. Huntley dryly. "I'm working for Uncle Sam, now, Tom. Got new fish to fry. Used to have some gay times in New York, didn't we? Oh, hello, Craig!"
"My name is Martin Wall," said that gentleman stiffly.
