Mr. Bryany asked, with a rather obvious anxiety: 

“But when can you pay?”

“Oh, I’ll send you a cheque in a day or two.”  And Edward Henry in his turn took a fresh cigarette.

“That won’t do!  That won’t do!” cried Mr. Bryany.  “I absolutely must have the money to-morrow morning in London.  I can sell the option in London for eighty pounds—­I know that.”

“You must have it?”

“Must!”

They exchanged glances.  And Edward Henry, rapidly acquiring new knowledge of human nature on the threshold of a world strange to him, understood that Mr. Bryany, with his private sitting-room and his investments in Seattle and Calgary, was at his wits’ end for a bag of English sovereigns, and had trusted to some chance encounter to save him from a calamity.  And his contempt for Mr. Bryany was that of a man to whom his bankers are positively servile.

“Here!” Mr. Bryany almost shouted.  “Don’t light your cigarette with my option!”

“I beg pardon!” Edward Henry apologized, dropping the document which he had creased into a spill.  There were no matches left on the table.

“I’ll find you a match!”

“It’s of no consequence,” said Edward Henry, feeling in his pockets.  Having discovered therein a piece of paper he twisted it and rose to put it to the gas.

“Could you slip round to your bank and meet me at the station in the morning with the cash?” suggested Mr. Bryany.

“No, I couldn’t,” said Edward Henry.

“Well, then, what—?”

“Here, you’d better take this,” the “Card,” reborn, soothed his host and, blowing out the spill which he had just ignited at the gas, he offered it to Mr. Bryany.

“What?”

“This, man!”

Mr. Bryany, observing the peculiarity of the spill, seized it and unrolled it—­not without a certain agitation.

He stammered: 

“Do you mean to say it’s genuine?”

“You’d almost think so, wouldn’t you?” said Edward Henry.  He was growing fond of this reply, and of the enigmatic, playful tone that he had invented for it.

“But—­”

“We may, as you say, look twice at a fiver,” continued Edward Henry.  “But we’re apt to be careless about hundred-pound notes in this district.  I daresay that’s why I always carry one.”

“But it’s burnt!”

“Only just the edge.  Not enough to harm it.  If any bank in England refuses it, return it to me and I’ll give you a couple more in exchange.  Is that talking?”

“Well, I’m dashed!” Mr. Bryany attempted to rise, and then subsided back into his chair.  “I am simply and totally dashed!” He smiled weakly, hysterically.

And in that instant Edward Henry felt all the sweetness of a complete and luscious revenge.

He said commandingly: 

“You must sign me a transfer.  I’ll dictate it!”

Then he jumped up.

“You’re in a hurry?”