CHAPTER VI.
When Harley was gone, Egerton sunk back on his chair, as if in extreme physical or mental exhaustion, all the lines of his countenance relaxed and jaded.
“To go back to that place—there—there—where—Courage, courage! what is another pang?”
He rose with an effort, and folding his arms tightly across his breast, paced slowly to and fro the large, mournful, solitary room. Gradually his countenance assumed its usual cold and austere composure,—the secret eye, the guarded lip, the haughty, collected front. The man of the world was himself once more.
“Now to gain time, and to baffle the usurer,” murmured Egerton, with that low tone of easy scorn, which bespoke consciousness of superior power and the familiar mastery over hostile natures. He rang the bell: the servant entered.
“Is Baron Levy still waiting?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Admit him.” Levy entered.
“I beg your pardon, Levy,” said the ex-minister, “for having so long detained you. I am now at your commands.”
“My dear fellow,” returned the baron, “no apologies between friends so old as we are; and I fear that my business is not so agreeable as to make you impatient to discuss it.”