Part 10 (2/2)

”Jack speaking--Jack Marlowe,” exclaimed the distant voice. ”Is that you, Owen? Your voice sounds different.”

”So does yours, a bit,” I said. ”Voices often do on the 'phone. Where are you?”

”I'm out in Bayswater--Althorp House, Porchester Terrace,” my friend replied. ”I'm in a bit of a tight corner. Can you come here? I'm so sorry to trouble you, old man. I wouldn't ask you to turn out at this hour if it weren't imperative.”

”Certainly I'll come,” I said, my curiosity at once aroused. ”But what's up?”

”Oh, nothing very alarming,” he laughed. ”Nothing to worry over. I've been playing cards, and lost a bit, that's all. Bring your cheque-book; I want to pay up before I leave. You understand. I know you'll help me, like the good pal you always are.”

”Why, of course I will, old man,” was my prompt reply.

”I've got to pay up my debts for the whole week--nearly a thousand.

Been infernally unlucky. Never had such vile luck. Have you got it in the bank? I can pay you all right at the end of next week.”

”Yes,” I said, ”I can let you have it.”

”These people know you, and they'll take your cheque, they say.”

”Right-ho!” I said; ”I'll get a taxi and be up with you in half-an-hour.”

”You're a real good pal, Owen. Remember the address: Althorp House, Porchester Terrace,” cried my friend cheerily. ”Get here as soon as you can, as I want to get home. So-long.”

And, after promising to hurry, I hung up the receiver again.

Dear old Jack always was a bit reckless. He had a good income allowed him by his father, but was just a little too fond of games of chance.

He had been hard hit in February down at Monte Carlo, and I had lent him a few hundreds to tide him over. Yet, by his remarks over the 'phone, I could only gather that he had fallen into the hands of sharpers, who held him up until he paid--no uncommon thing in London.

Card-sharpers are generally blackmailers as well, and no doubt these people were bleeding poor Jack to a very considerable tune.

I rose, dressed, and, placing my revolver in my hip pocket in case of trouble, walked towards Victoria Station, where I found a belated taxi.

Within half-an-hour I alighted before a large dark house about half-way up Porchester Terrace, Bayswater, standing back from the road, with small garden in front; a house with closely-shuttered windows, the only light showing being that in the fanlight over the door.

My approaching taxi was being watched for, I suppose, for as I crossed the gravel the door fell back, and a smart, middle-aged man-servant admitted me.

”I want to see Mr. Marlowe,” I said.

”Are you Mr. Biddulph?” he inquired, eyeing me with some suspicion.

I replied in the affirmative, whereupon he invited me to step upstairs, while I followed him up the wide, well-carpeted staircase and along a corridor on the first floor into a small sitting-room at the rear of the house.

”Mr. Marlowe will be here in a few moments, sir,” he said; ”he left a message asking you to wait. He and Mr. Forbes have just gone across the road to a friend's house. I'll send over and tell him you are here, if you'll kindly take a seat.”

The room was small, fairly well furnished, but old-fas.h.i.+oned, and lit by an oil-lamp upon the table. The air was heavy with tobacco-smoke, and near the window was a card-table whereat four players had been seated. The cigar-ash bore testimony to recent occupation of the four chairs, while two packs of cards had been flung down just as the men had risen.

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