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"But suppose Joan refuses me point blank?" persisted the other.

Lord Creith's smile was broad and bland.

"Then, my dear boy, you're finished!"

Hamon bit off the end of a cigar deliberately, as Lord Creith looked significantly at the door.

"You must have some influence, Creith," he said doggedly. "Talk to her."

The older man leaned back in his chair, obviously bored, as obviously resigned to boredom.

"I'll speak to her," he said. "Oh, by the way, that farm you wanted, you can't have. I find that the mortgage was foreclosed by the Midland Bank a month ago, and the property has been sold to that queer fish, James Lexington Morlake. Though why the dickens he wants it——"

"Morlake!"

Creith looked up in surprise. The sallow face of Mr. Ralph Hamon was puckered, his slit of a mouth was parted in amazement and anger.

"Morlake—no—James Lexington Morlake? Does he live near here? Is he the man you were talking about the other day—you said he was an American...."

He fired the questions in rapid succession, and Lord Creith closed his eyes wearily.