The fresh frosty air roused his intellectual faculties, which Levy’s ominous words had almost paralyzed.
And the first thing the clever schemer said to himself was this,
“But what can be the man’s motive in what he said to me?”
The next was,—
“Egerton ruined! What am I, then?” And the third was,
“And that fair remnant of the old Leslie property! L20,000 down—how to get the sum? Why should Levy have spoken to me of this?”
And lastly, the soliloquy rounded back—“The man’s motives! His motives!”
Meanwhile, the baron threw himself into his chariot—the most comfortable, easy chariot you can possibly conceive, single man’s chariot, perfect taste,—no married man ever had such a chariot; and in a few minutes he was at ————-’s hotel, and in the presence of Giulio Franzini, Count di Peschiera.
“Mon cher,” said the baron, in very good French, and in a tone of the most familiar equality with the descendant of the princes and heroes of grand medieval Italy,—“mon cher, give me one of your excellent cigars. I think I have put all matters in train.”
“You have found out—”