What dreadful wave threatens to engulf the Deanery? What has come to us in a few fatal hours? A horse of sporting tendencies contaminating my stables, his equally vicious owner nestling in the nursery, and my own widowed sister, in all probability, smoking a cigarette at her bedroom window with her feet on the window-ledge! [Listening.] What’s that? [He peers through the window curtains.] I thought I heard footsteps in the garden. I can see nothing—only the old spire standing out against the threatening sky. [Leaving the window shudderingly.] The Spire! My principal creditor! My principal creditor, the most conspicuous object in the city!
Blore re-enters with his lantern, carrying some bank-notes in his hand.
Blore.
[Laying the notes on the table.] I found these, sir, on your dressing-table—they’re bank-notes, sir.
The Dean.
[Taking the notes.] Thank you. I placed them there to be sent to the Bank to-morrow. [Counting the notes.] Ten—ten—twenty—five—five, fifty. Fifty pounds! The very sum Georgiana urged me to—oh! [To Blore, waving him away.] Leave me—go to bed—go to bed—go to bed! [Blore is going.] Blore!
Blore.
Sir?
The Dean.
What made you tempt me with these at such a moment?