Chapter Nineteen.
A Business Interview.
As the ladies left, the old lawyer glanced at his companion, and then drew his watch from his pocket and began to wind it up.
“Example is better than precept,” said his companion, drawing the handsome gold presentation-watch from his pocket, and winding it in turn.
“Don’t you ever feel afraid of being robbed of that watch, Mr Harrington?” said the old lawyer. “It must have cost a hundred.”
“The sum exactly with the nugget chain,” said the young man sharply. “No, I never feel afraid of being robbed. I could afford it, though, if I were.”
“Yes, yes; of course—of course.”
“Come into the study. I want a chat with you.”
“About more money,” muttered the lawyer, as he followed the young man down the passage to the library-like room opening upon the garden.
Here the first thing the host did was to open the window, look out for a few moments at the soft dark night, and then draw to and fasten the outer shutters, after which he closed the window.
“You know what I want, of course,” he said shortly.
“Yes, sir; I presume it is money.”
“Well, it’s my money, isn’t it?”
“Yes, yes; of course; but if you would allow me—”
“I don’t allow you,” was the sharp reply. “I want three thousand pounds within a week. You understand—within a week.”
“Consols are very low just now, Mr Harrington; would it not be advisable to wait till they go up?”
“No, sir, it would not. You understand; I want that money within a week, and the day I am married, fifteen days from this, I shall require another thousand.”
“Certainly, Mr Harrington,” said the old lawyer. “You have nothing more to say to me to-night?”
“No, sir, nothing. That’s an end to business. Now we can be sociable and friendly. Will you have a little whiskey and a cigar?”
“No, sir, thanks. I had a busy day in town and shall be glad to get to bed. Good-night.”
“Good-night, Mr Hampton, and I suppose you will not be sorry when our relations are always of a business character.”
“For some reasons, no, Mr George Harrington—for some reasons, yes,” said the old lawyer. “Good-night.”
He left the study and began to ascend the stairs, but for some reason went down again and entered the dining-room, and in the dim light given by the turned-down lamp, the portrait of his own client seemed to be gazing down at him searchingly.
With a half shiver he went back, and again began to ascend, to feel the cool night air blowing in upon him from the open staircase window.
This he closed, but did not fasten, the clasp being too high, and the window far above the ground.
“I shall be glad when I am back home,” he muttered. “What can he do with all this money? I should like to know. Who’s that?”
He started and exclaimed aloud, for he had heard a rustling sound.
“Only me, sir. I was coming down to close that window.”
“You startled me, Denton, going about like a ghost. Good-night.”
“Good-night, sir.”
Then first one door closed, then another, and one door opened, that of the study, from which the occupant’s face appeared for a few moments with an intent listening air upon the stern features.
Then the door was closed again, the cabinet opened, and the cash-box taken from one of the drawers, over which the young man sat for quite half an hour, counting notes and calculating, before replacing the contents.
“I don’t like to leave it here,” he said thoughtfully. “It has been safe so far, but thieves might break through and steal, and that would be awkward. Let’s think it out over a cigar.”
He took the spirit-stand from the closet again, poured out a goodly portion of whiskey into a Venice glass, and after mildly lowering its strength with water, took a deep draught before lighting a choice cigar, whose pleasant perfume soon pervaded the room.
“Notes, notes. Gold so much better, but awkward to carry,” he muttered, and then burst into an unpleasant laugh.
“Shall I—shan’t I? Ten thousand safe, better than a hundred thousand doubtful, and who knows what Master Saul might do.”
A strange silence fell upon the place—a silence which seemed painful, for as a rule the low hollow rumble of market-wagons echoed from the high brick wall of The Mynns the night through.
That silence was broken by the smoker’s voice, as he said in a low, angry whisper:
“Saul Harrington is a coward and a cur. He dares nothing—nothing. A snarling dog who fears to bite. Why, if I had been in his place—
“Well, never mind,” he said after a pause. “But about this money—a bird in the hand is worth too in the bush, even if one is Gertrude—a pretty little innocent. Yes, that will be the best plan after all.”
He rose hastily, took a Bradshaw from the shelf, and rapidly turned over the leaves; but as he did so the lamp went out.