The man thought of his long day's work and his waiting supper. "Yes," he answered rather reluctantly.
"Stop in, then, when you go."
Farrell went off grumbling. He would go home to supper first, that he would. These men had no souls. That long walk— Some people always rode in chaises, were born with silver spoons in their mouths, and looked on the rest of the world as mere lackeys!
There was some wine in the closet, and Mr. Lawrence took a glass to clear his brain. He rarely used it save at dinner. Then back to the tormenting books,—columns of business that appeared incredible now. How had all this money slipped away?
Farrell tapped, and came in.
"Jackson's here now, sir. Is the note ready?"
"Yes. There is some change. Get a hack, Farrell: it is too far to walk. Did Mr. Eastman"—
There was so long a pause that Farrell said,—
"Mr. Eastman went to New York. He said he might not be back to-morrow."
Mr. Lawrence nodded, as if that were sufficient. He would not peer into the man's business.