I am still in that—er—^pleasing state. The young lady's name, gentlemen, is Cynthia Meyrick. She is the daughter of Spencer Meyrick, whose for-ttme has, I believe, been acctmiulated in oil."
Mr. Thacker's eyebrows rose respectfully.
"A week from next Tuesday," said Lord Har-rowby solemnly, "at San Marco, on the east coast of Florida, this young woman and I are to be married."
"And what," asked Owen Jephson, "is your proposition ?"
Lord Harrowby shifted nervously in his chair.
"I say we are to be married," he continued. "But arc we ? That is the nightmare that haunts me. A slip. My—er—creditors coming down on me. And far more important, the dreadful agony of losing the dearest woman in the world."
"What could happen ?" Mr. Jephson wanted to know.
"Did I say the young woman was vivacious ?" inquired Lord Harrowby. "She is. A thousand
girls in one. Some untoward happening, and she might change her mind—in a flash."
Silence within the room; outside the roar of New York and the clatter of the inevitable riveting machine making its points relentlessly.
"That," said Lord Harrowby slowly, "is what I wish you to insure me against, Mr, Jephson."
"You mean—"
"I mean the awful possibility of Miss Cynthia Meyrick's changing her mind."
Again silence, save for the riveting machine outside. And three men looking unbelievingly at one another.
"Of course," his lordship went on hastily, "it is understood that I personally am very eager for this wedding to take place. It is understood that in the interval before the ceremony I shall do all in my power to keep Miss Meyrick to her present intention. Should the marriage be abandoned because of any act of mine, I would be ready to forfeit all claims on Lloyds."
Mr. Thacker recovered his breath and his voice at one and the same time.
"Preposterous," he snorted. "Begging your
A SPORTING PROPOSITION 13
lordship's pardon, you can not expect hard-headed business men to listen seriously to any such proposition as that. Tushery, sir, tushery! Speaking as the American representative of Uoyds—*'
"One moment," interrupted Mr. Jephson. In his eyes shone a queer light— sl light such as one might expect to find in the eyes of Peter Pan, the boy who never grew up. "One moment, please. What sum had you in mind, Lord Har-rowby ?"
"Well—say one hundred thousand pounds," suggested his lordship. "I realize that my proposition is fantastic. I really admitted as much. But—"
"One hundred thousand pounds." Mr. Jephson repeated it thoughtfully. "I should have to charge your lordship a rather high rate. As high as ten per cent."
Lord Harrowby seemed to be in the throes of mental arithmetic.
"I am afraid," he said finally, "I could not afford one himdred thousand at that rate. But I could afford—seventy-five thousand. Would that be satisfactory, Mr.
1 comment