bested me, and I must pay," he said, in a voice full of tears.
His emotion did not touch us. We untied his hands, set him in a chair before the table and put blotting-paper, pens and ink before him. Chelubai took a note-case from his pocket, drew from it a folded sheet of paper and laid it on the blotting-paper. "First of all," he said, "we want a letter from you explaining things."
"Why, it's my office paper!" cried the King of Finance.
"Yes, I thought you might want it, so I brought it away with me when I called on you," said Chelubai. "Write away. Date it yesterday."
Honest John Driver dated the letter, and wrote, with many protests, at Chelubai's dictation:
"My dear Sir Ralph Bottiger:
"I shall have much pleasure in dining with you at the Cecil, and motoring down to your Hertfordshire cottage for a night at Bridge. But let us play good high points, for, thanks to the timely disappearance of my fellow-director, Mr. Pudleigh, I have made twice as much out of the silly British Public over Amalgamated Fertilizers as I expected, and I should like a good gamble.
"Yours sincerely,
