He struck his colours.

A cheque at two months was nothing, after all.

In two months he would probably be dead, or in a gaol at any rate.

He bade the manager give Mr Moss a chair and the paper.

'I'm going over to get a cheque signed by Mr Finsbury,' said he, 'who is lying ill at John Street.' A cab there and a cab back; here were inroads on his wretched capital! He counted the cost; when he was done with Mr Moss he would be left with twelvepence-halfpenny in the world.