"I mean that he was here this morning."
_The Viscount_. "Carnaby? Here? Impossible! What under heaven should
make you think so?"
"This," said Barnabas, and held out a small, crumpled piece of paper.
The Viscount took it, glanced at it, and his knife clattered to the
floor.
"Sixty thousand pounds!" he exclaimed, and sat staring down at the
crumpled paper, wide-eyed. "Sixty thousand!" he repeated. "Is it
sixty or six, Bev? Read it out," and he thrust the torn paper across
to Barnabas, who, taking it up, read as follows:--
--felicitate you upon your marriage with the lovely
heiress, Lady M., failing which I beg most humbly to remind
you, my dear Sir Mortimer Carnaby, that the sixty thousand
pounds must be paid back on the day agreed upon, namely
July 16,
Your humble, obedient Servant,
JASPER GAUNT.
"Jasper Gaunt!" exclaimed the Viscount. "Sixty thousand pounds! Poor
Carnaby! Sixty thousand pounds payable on July sixteenth! Now the
fifteenth, my dear Bev, is the day of the race, and if he should lose,
it looks very much as though Carnaby would be ruined, Bev."
"Unless he marries 'the lovely heiress'!" added Barnabas.
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