Frank reads on, but to himself, and with a changing countenance,
DEAR HAZELDEAN,—I am very sorry to tell you that, in consequence of the sudden failure of a house at Paris with which I Had large dealings, I am pressed on a sudden for all the ready money I can get. I don't want to inconvenience you, but do try to see if you can take up those bills of yours which I hold, and which, as you know, have been due some little time. I had hit on a way of arranging your affairs; but when I hinted at it, you seemed to dislike the idea; and Leslie has since told me that you have strong objections to giving any security on your prospective property. So no more of that, my dear fellow. I am called out in haste to try what I can do for a very charming client of mine, who is in great pecuniary distress, though she has for her brother a foreign count, as rich as a Croesus. There is an execution in her house. I am going down to the tradesman who put it in, but have no hope of softening him; and I fear there will be others before the day is out. Another reason for wanting money, if you can help me, mon cher! An execution in the house of one of the most brilliant women in London,—an execution in Curzon Street, May Fair! It will be all over the town if I can't stop it.
Yours in haste,
LEVY.
P.S.—-Don't let what I have said vex you too much. I should not
trouble you if Spendquick and Borrowell would pay me something.
Perhaps you can get them to do so.
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—"