sir," he said. "They're expecting you, sir. Kindly come this way, sir."
The old man followed, wondering at the cordiality of his reception. There must be some mistake. Expecting him? How could that be! He was led into a most sumptuous parlour where a cluster of electric lamps in the ceiling threw a soft radiance around the room.
"Be seated, sir. I will tell Mr. Hammond that you are here."
"But—stop a moment. I don't want to see Mr. Hammond. I have nothing to do with Mr. Hammond. I want to see my son. Is it Mr. Hammond the banker?"
"Yes, sir. He told me to bring you in here when you came and to let him know at once."
The old man drew his hand across his brow, and ere he could reply the porter had disappeared. He sat down in one of the exceedingly easy leather chairs and gazed in bewilderment around the room. The fine pictures on the wall related exclusively to sporting subjects. A trim yacht, with its tall, slim masts and towering cloud of canvas at an apparently dangerous angle, seemed sailing directly at the spectator. Pugilists, naked to the waists, held their clinched fists in menacing attitudes. Race-horses, in states of activity and at rest, were interspersed here and there. In the centre of the room stood a pedestal of black marble, and upon it rested a huge silver vase encrusted with ornamentation. The old man did not know that this elaborate specimen of the silversmith's art was referred to as the "Cup." Some one had hung a placard on it, bearing, in crudely scrawled letters the words:—
"Fare thee well, and if for ever
Still for ever Fare thee well."
While the old man was wondering what all this meant, the curtain suddenly parted and there entered an elderly gentleman somewhat jauntily attired in evening dress with a rose at his buttonhole. Saunders instantly recognised him as the banker, and he felt a resentment at what he considered his foppish appearance, realising almost at the same moment the rustiness of his own clothes, an everyday suit, not too expensive even when new.
"How are you, Mr. Saunders?" cried the banker, cordially extending his hand. "I am very pleased indeed to meet you. We got your telegram, but thought it best not to give it to Dick. I took the liberty of opening it myself. You see we can't be too careful about these little details. I told the porter to look after you and let me know the moment you came. Of course you are very anxious about your boy."
"I am," said the old man firmly. "That's why I'm here."
"Certainly, certainly. So are we all, and I presume I'm the most anxious man of the lot. Now what you want to know is how he is getting along?"
"Yes; I want to know the truth."
"Well, unfortunately, the truth is about as gloomy as it can be. He's been going from bad to worse, and no man is more sorry than I am."
"Do you mean to tell me so?"
"Yes. There is no use deluding ourselves. Frankly, I have no hope for him. There is not one chance in ten thousand of his recovering his lost ground."
The old man caught his breath, and leaned on his cane for support. He realised now the hollowness of his previous anger. He had never for a moment believed the boy was going to the bad. Down underneath his crustiness was a deep love for his son and a strong faith in him. He had allowed his old habit of domineering to get the better of him, and now in searching after a phantom he had suddenly come upon a ghastly reality.
"Look here," said the banker, noticing his agitation, "have a drink of our Special Scotch with me. It is the best there is to be had for money. We always take off our hats when we speak of the Special in this club. Then we'll go and see how things are moving."
As he turned to order the liquor he noticed for the first time the placard on the cup.
"Now, who the dickens put that there?" he cried angrily. "There's no use in giving up before you're thrashed." Saying which, he took off the placard, tore it up, and threw it into the waste basket.
"Does Richard drink?" asked the old man huskily, remembering the eulogy on the Special.
"Bless you, no. Nor smoke either. No, nor gamble, which is more extraordinary. No, it's all right for old fellows like you and me to indulge in the Special—bless it—but a young man who needs to keep his nerves in order, has to live like a monk. I imagine it's a love affair. Of course, there's no use asking you: you would be the last one to know. When he came in to-night I saw he was worried over something. I asked him what it was, but he declared there was nothing wrong. Here's the liquor. You'll find that it reaches the spot."
The old man gulped down some of the celebrated "Special," then he said—
"Is it true that you induced my son to join this club?"
"Certainly. I heard what he could do from a man I had confidence in, and I said to myself, We must have young Saunders for a member."
"Then don't you think you are largely to blame?"
"Oh, if you like to put it that way; yes. Still I'm the chief loser. I lose ten thousand by him."
"Good God!" cried the stricken father.
The banker looked at the old man a little nervously, as if he feared his head was not exactly right. Then he said: "Of course you will be anxious to see how the thing ends. Come in with me, but be careful the boy doesn't catch sight of you. It might rattle him. I'll get you a place at the back, where you can see without being seen."
They rose, and the banker led the way on tiptoe between the curtains into a large room filled with silent men earnestly watching a player at a billiard table in the centre of the apartment. Temporary seats had been built around the walls, tier above tier, and every place was taken. Saunders noticed his son standing near the table in his shirt- sleeves, with his cue butt downward on the ground. His face was pale and his lips compressed as he watched his opponent's play like a man fascinated. Evidently his back was against the wall, and he was fighting a hopeless fight, but was grit to the last.
Old Saunders only faintly understood the situation, but his whole sympathy went out to his boy, and he felt an instinctive hatred of the confident opponent who was knocking the balls about with a reckless accuracy which was evidently bringing dismay to the hearts of at least half the onlookers.
All at once there was a burst of applause, and the player stood up straight with a laugh.
"By Jove!" cried the banker, "he's missed. Didn't put enough stick behind it. That comes of being too blamed sure. Shouldn't wonder but there is going to be a turn of luck. Perhaps you'll prove a mascot, Mr. Saunders."
He placed the old man on an elevated seat at the back. There was a buzz of talk as young Saunders stood there chalking his cue, apparently loth to begin.
Hammond mixed among the crowd, and spoke eagerly now to one, now to another. Old Saunders said to the man next him—
"What is it all about? Is this an important match?"
"Important! You bet it is. I suppose there's more money on this game than was ever put on a billiard match before. Why, Jule Hammond alone has ten thousand on Saunders."
The old man gave a quivering sigh of relief. He was beginning to understand. The ten thousand, then, was not the figures of a defalcation.
"Yes," continued the other, "it's the great match for the cup. There's been a series of games, and this is the culminating one. Prognor has won one, and Saunders one; now this game settles it. Prognor is the man of the High Fliers' Club. He's a good one. Saunders won the cup for this club last year, so they can't kick much if they lose it now. They've never had a man to touch Saunders in this club since it began. I doubt if there's another amateur like him in this country. He's a man to be proud of, although he seemed to go to pieces to-night. They'll all be down on him to-morrow if they lose their money, although he don't make anything one way or another. I believe it's the high betting that's made him so anxious and spoiled his play."
"Hush, hush!" was whispered around the room. Young Saunders had begun to play. Prognor stood by with a superior smile on his lips. He was certain to go out when his turn came again.
Saunders