It seemed to Jacob, when he was awakened from a sound sleep about four o’clock the next morning, that his young companion’s farewell words had been vainglorious. He was first of all conscious of the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs, then the opening of Lord Felixstowe’s door, and the muffled tramp of two men evidently carrying some sort of a burden. A few seconds later there was an apologetic knock at his own door, and Morse presented himself. His evening attire was slightly ruffled, he was not remarkably steady upon his feet, and his speech was a little less precise than usual. Otherwise, he showed no signs of a night of dissipation.

“Forgive my disturbing you, Mr. Pratt,” he said, “but I thought I had better just let you know that we’ve had a little trouble with his young lordship this evening.”

“You mean, I suppose,” Jacob observed, “that he’s had too much to drink?”

Morse coughed—then hiccoughed and drew himself up with preternatural gravity.

“Lord Felixstowe was certainly a little indiscreet,” he admitted. “He has a very good head for a young man, but he would insist upon cocktails after champagne.”

“Where is he now?”

“Lying down in his room. The chauffeur and I carried him up, and he will be quite all right in the morning. I’ll take the liberty of sending a little draught round about breakfast time.”

“Silly young ass!” Jacob yawned. “Thank you, Mr. Morse, and good night.”

“Good night, Mr. Pratt.”

Jacob, after a few minutes’ reflection, swung out of bed, put on his dressing gown, and made his way into the adjoining apartment. Lord Felixstowe, fully dressed, was lying upon the bed, breathing heavily. Jacob approached and stood over him. His tie had gone altogether, there were wine stains upon his shirt front, his hair, generally so beautifully smooth, was in wild disorder.

“You bragging young donkey!” Jacob scoffed. “He’s put it across you all right.”

The young man suddenly turned his head. There was a contraction of his left eyelid. He solemnly winked.

“I don’t think!” he said. “Turn on the taps in the bathroom, old dear. I’m going to have a soak.”

“Do you mean to say that you’re shamming?” Jacob exclaimed.

“How did you guess it! A hot bath and a small whisky and soda, and I shall drop off to sleep in a twinkling. But, Jacob, my lord and master,” Felixstowe enjoined earnestly, as he commenced to throw off his clothes, “don’t you try it on with them. I thought some of the lads from our own village could shift the stuff a bit when they were up against it, but, believe me, we do no more than gargle our throats over in London. When it comes to the real thing, they’ve got us beaten to a frazzle. Tuck yourself into bed, old thing, and don’t you worry about me. What a house to stay in!” the young man concluded, with a little burst of enthusiasm, as he pointed to the decanter of whisky, the soda water, and the silver ice tray set out upon a small table. “Jacob, when your brother rises from his bed of sickness, I shall grasp his hand and salute him as the lord of hosts. Absolutely clinking! Tophole!”

The young man disappeared into the bathroom, and Jacob, reassured but a little bewildered, went back to bed. To all appearance, Felixstowe was perfectly sober. Nevertheless, when breakfast was served the next morning, Jacob found himself alone.

“Have you told Lord Felixstowe?” he enquired of the butler.

“His lordship went out some time ago, sir,” the man replied, with a faint smile. “He left word that he had gone to the chemist’s.”

Jacob, somewhat puzzled, finished his breakfast without comment. He was halfway through a cigar afterwards when the butler reappeared.

“Mr. Morse’s compliments, sir, and will you step down to the library and see Doctor Bardolf?”

Jacob made his way to the very sumptuous room on the ground floor, which his brother when at home had christened his business room. The physician, who was waiting there, shook hands with him warmly. His manner this morning seemed a little more friendly and a little less professional. He had the air of a man for whom a period of some mental strain has ended.

“Your brother will pull through, sir,” he announced. “There is a marked improvement this morning.”

“I am delighted,” Jacob said heartily.

“I think that by to-morrow or the next day you will be able to see him, and I feel confident that Mr. Morse will be able to get his signature to any cheque or document required.”

“I have been trying to persuade the doctor,” Morse intervened, “to let me make out a cheque for this amount,”—drawing a statement from his pocket,—“and guide Mr. Samuel’s hand while he signed it. Then we need not trouble you in the matter at all.”

The physician seemed to consider the point.

“On the whole,” he decided, “my patient is a man of such wealth that I don’t think it is advisable to run the slightest risk where a financial question is concerned. Mr. Samuel Pratt is a very old friend of mine, and if a few hundred thousand dollars or so are any convenience, Mr. Morse—”

“Certainly not,” Jacob interrupted. “I am sure my brother will be glad to hear of your offer, Doctor, but I am on the spot and I can easily manage anything that is required. Let me have that statement, Mr. Morse.”

The secretary passed over a stockbroker’s statement from Messrs. Worstead and Jones, showing a balance of six hundred and eighty-two thousand four hundred and twenty dollars. Jacob drew out his cheque book. Morse watched him indifferently as he wrote.

“I’m afraid his lordship is not feeling quite himself this morning,” he observed. “Sorry he troubled to go round to the druggist’s. I could have fixed him up something myself. We had—”

The door opened softly. Felixstowe crossed the threshold, smiling amiably. He was dressed with his usual precision in a blue serge suit, a regimental tie, and wonderfully polished brown shoes. His Homburg hat, which he removed as he entered, was just a shade on one side. He looked the picture of health.

“Good morning, everybody,” he said genially, closing the door behind him. “Just in the nick of time, eh?”

“In the nick of time for what?” Jacob asked, turning around.

“To stop your signing that cheque.”

Jacob stared at the newcomer in amazement. Neither the physician nor Morse uttered a syllable. Their eyes were fixed upon the young man.

“Hearken now to the tale of the sleuthhound,” the latter continued, setting down his hat, cane and gloves upon the sideboard and thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets. “Fact is, I just toddled round to Number 1001 West Fifty-seventh Street this morning, and I’ve been having a chat with Doctor Bardolf.”

“What are you talking about?” Jacob demanded. “Doctor Bardolf is here.”

“Oh, no, he isn’t!” the young man retorted pleasantly. “Or, as I should say in the vernacular of this amazing country, I guess not! This gentleman gives a very creditable rendering of the part, but he is no more Doctor Bardolf than the Johnny upstairs is Mr. Samuel Pratt. The fact is, Jacob, the whole thing is a layout, and you’ve been very nearly pinched.”

Doctor Bardolf picked up his hat with dignity.

“I do not understand your young countryman’s phraseology,” he said, turning towards the door.

“He isn’t sober yet!” Morse gasped, with a frightened look in his eyes.

Felixstowe’s slim young form seemed to expand.

“You stay where you are,” he ordered the pseudo-physician sternly. “This is about the hang of the thing, Jacob. Your brother went to the Adirondacks, all right, leaving his house here in the charge of Morse, whom, like a fool, he seems to have trusted. Morse planned the rest of it. Not so difficult, either. He couldn’t get at any of your brother Samuel’s oof, so he cabled to you, dismissed the servants whom he couldn’t bring into the job, and got this chap Worstead, who is a ruined stockbroker, to play the part of the physician. Damned good scheme, too!—Hullo!”

The door had opened a little abruptly, and a small man, bearing an unmistakable resemblance to Jacob, had entered. His cheeks were sunburnt, and he had the unkempt appearance of one who has been living in the backwoods.

“Jacob!” the newcomer exclaimed enthusiastically, holding out both his hands. “Welcome to New York!”

Jacob felt a little dazed.

“You haven’t been ill at all then, Samuel?”

“Ill?” the other repeated contemptuously. “I was never better in my life. What’s it all about?”

Morse threw up the sponge, and Worstead, alias Bardolf, followed suit.

“He led me into this mess,” the former declared, shaking his fist at Worstead. “Got me gambling on differences, and when I couldn’t pay he cooked up this joint. It’s the first time I haven’t run straight, Mr. Pratt, and I didn’t touch any of your money, anyway.”

“So there’s been some crooked business, eh?” Samuel Pratt remarked. “Will some one tell me exactly what’s happened?”

Felixstowe gently intervened.

“You’ll pick the whole thing up by degrees,” he said, “but this is the long and short of it. Your brother Jacob gets a cable over in England, sent by Morse here, to say that you are dangerously ill. Out we come, first steamer. Morse meets us, brings us here; you are supposed to be upstairs with a hospital nurse, too ill to be seen. A financial crisis arises and Jacob is asked to find a trifle of six hundred thousand dollars to pay some differences on your account. The dear boy was on the point of signing his cheque when I popped in and put the kybosh on it.”

“But what on earth made you suspicious?” Jacob demanded.

“First night we were out together,” Felixstowe continued, “I began to tumble to it that Morse here had a pretty considerable acquaintance amongst the crooks. Then he dropped a note from you, Mr. Pratt, saying that you were staying three or four days at the Touraine Hotel in Boston, on your way home, so I slipped out and sent that dispatch to you on the chance. Last night again he made one or two bloomers, so this morning I just hopped round to Doctor Bardolf’s address, and that, of course, busted the whole show.”

“Make me out a list of the people in my household associated with you in this,” his employer ordered Morse sternly, “and bring it to my den immediately.—Stay where you are, Worstead. I shall treat you both alike.—Jacob,” he added, indicating Felixstowe, “who is this remarkably intelligent young man?”

“My secretary,” Jacob replied.

“Name of Felixstowe,” the young man observed, holding out his hand with a winning smile. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Samuel Pratt.”

Samuel passed a hand through the arm of each.

“Come right along with me, boys, to my den, where the still waters flow,” he invited. “We’ll talk over the business quietly. Bring me the list I asked for in five minutes, Morse, and you’d better induce Mr. Worstead to take a seat and wait quietly. I stopped at the station and brought along a couple of plain-clothes men, in case there was any trouble.—This way.”