Lord Stranleigh was standing the brunt of it. He had let loose a white avalanche upon himself. Every postman brought in a sackful of letters forwarded from London, and some of them brought two. These communications, by order of Blake, were dumped in a corner of the large parlour one stair up, whose broad balcony overlooked the sea.
Stranleigh, his two hands deep in his trousers pockets, gazed at the ever-increasing heap with an expression of dismay.
"If this keeps on much longer, Blake," he said, "we'll have the police down on us, certain that we are engaged in some fraudulent enterprise. It is only an arrant swindle that can call out such an immediate and voluminous response from the gullible British public."
"Five hundred pounds is a tempting bait, my lord," said Blake, who, knees on the floor, was making an ineffectual effort to sort out the letters.
"I suppose it is, yet it seems amazing that so small an amount should produce such an appalling result. If I'd advertised for someone to lend me five hundred pounds, I don't suppose the population would be tumbling over one another, anxious to accommodate me, although this is a rich country."
"Oh, I'm not so sure of that," replied the
