village."

"Here's one of the clan!" Montague exclaimed, looking up. "Sit down
and have a drink with us, Felixstowe."

Lord Felixstowe, who had paused at the table on his way through the
restaurant, surveyed the little party without undue enthusiasm.

"Off it to-day, my children," he announced. "I'm playing polo at
Ranelagh this afternoon. Any one want to back the Crimson Sashes?"

Mr. Montague stretched out his hand and drew the young man a little
nearer.

"Look here, Felixstowe," he confided, "we're talking about
Pratt--Jacob Pratt. You know the little devil."

"What about him?" his lordship enquired, helping himself to a cigar
from the box on the table.

"Philip here, and Hartwell, have got it up against him hard. So have
I. We think it's about time he was taught a lesson. There might be
something for you out of it."

"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 s