Struck by Frank’s silence and paleness, Lord Spendquick here, in the kindest way possible, laid his hand on the young Guardsman’s shoulder. and looked over the note with that freedom which gentlemen in difficulties take with each other’s private and confidential correspondence. His eye fell on the postscript. “Oh, damn it,” cried Spendquick, “but that’s too bad,—employing you to get me to pay him! Such horrid treachery. Make yourself easy, my dear Frank; I could never suspect you of anything so unhandsome. I could as soon suspect myself of—paying him—”
“Curzon Street! Count!” muttered Frank, as if waking from a dream. “It must be so.” To thrust on his boots, change his dressing-robe for a frock-coat, snatch at his hat, gloves, and cane, break from Spendquick, descend the stairs, a flight at a leap, gain the street, throw himself into a cabriolet,—all this was done before his astounded visitor could even recover breath enough to ask “What’s the matter?”
Left thus alone, Lord Spendquick shook his head,—shook it twice, as if fully to convince himself that there was nothing in it; and then re-arranging his hat before the looking-glass, and drawing on his gloves deliberately, he walked downstairs, and strolled into White’s, but with a bewildered and absent air. Standing at the celebrated bow-window for some moments in musing silence, Lord Spendquick at last thus addressed an exceedingly cynical, sceptical old roue,
“Pray, do you think there is any truth in the stories about people in former times selling themselves to the devil?”
“Ugh,” answered the rout, much too wise ever to be surprised. “Have you any personal interest in the question?”
“I!—no; but a friend of mine has just received a letter from Levy, and he flew out of the room in the most ex-tra-ordi-na-ry manner,—just as people did in those days when their time was up! And Levy, you know, is—”
“Not quite as great a fool as the other dark gentleman to whom you would compare him; for Levy never made such bad bargains for himself. Time up! No doubt it is. I should not like to be in your friend’s shoes.”
“Shoes!” said Spendquick, with a sort of shudder; “you never saw a neater fellow, nor one, to do him justice, who takes more time in dressing than he does in general. And talking of shoes, he rushed out with the right boot on the left foot, and the left boot on the right. Very mysterious!” And a third time Lord Spendquick shook his head,—and a third time that head seemed to him wondrous empty.