As he spoke the youth appeared in the doorway with a small, brown, dried-up little chip of a man at his heels.  He was clean-shaven and blue-chinned, with bristling black hair, and keen brown eyes which shone out very brightly from between pouched under-lids and drooping upper ones.  He advanced, glancing keenly from one to the other of his visitors, and slowly rubbing together his thin, blue-veined hands.  The small boy closed the door behind him, and discreetly vanished.

“I am Mr. Reuben Metaxa,” said the moneylender.  “Was it about an advance you wished to see me?”

“Yes.”

“For you, I presume?” turning to Charles Westmacott.

“No, for this gentleman.”

The moneylender looked surprised.  “How much did you desire?”

“I thought of five thousand pounds,” said the Admiral.

“And on what security?”

“I am a retired admiral of the British navy.  You will find my name in the Navy List.  There is my card.  I have here my pension papers.  I get L850 a year.  I thought that perhaps if you were to hold these papers it would be security enough that I should pay you.  You could draw my pension, and repay yourselves at the rate, say, of L500 a year, taking your five per cent interest as well.”

“What interest?”

“Five per cent per annum.”

Mr. Metaxa laughed.  “Per annum!” he said.  “Five per cent a month.”

“A month!  That would be sixty per cent a year.”

“Precisely.”

“But that is monstrous.”

“I don’t ask gentlemen to come to me.  They come of their own free will.  Those are my terms, and they can take it or leave it.”

“Then I shall leave it.”  The Admiral rose angrily from his chair.

“But one moment, sir.  Just sit down and we shall chat the matter over.  Yours is a rather unusual case and we may find some other way of doing what you wish.  Of course the security which you offer is no security at all, and no sane man would advance five thousand pennies on it.”

“No security?  Why not, sir?”

“You might die to-morrow.  You are not a young man.  What age are you?”

“Sixty-three.”

Mr. Metaxa turned over a long column of figures.  “Here is an actuary’s table,” said he.  “At your time of life the average expectancy of life is only a few years even in a well-preserved man.”

“Do you mean to insinuate that I am not a well-preserved man?”

“Well, Admiral, it is a trying life at sea.  Sailors in their younger days are gay dogs, and take it out of themselves.  Then when they grow older they are still hard at it, and have no chance of rest or peace.  I do not think a sailor’s life a good one.”

“I’ll tell you what, sir,” said the Admiral hotly.  “If you have two pairs of gloves I’ll undertake to knock you out under three rounds.  Or I’ll race you from here to St. Paul’s, and my friend here will see fair.  I’ll let you see whether I am an old man or not.”