Mr. Bolton, in the background, pulled his hat over his eyes, and settled himself to listen.
That great financial strategist, Mr. Plumley, sat drinking whisky and water by lamplight. His pipe lay at his side. He had tried to smoke it; but tobacco flurried him.
“It should be about settled by now,” he muttered. “Where’s that Bolton?”
“Rap!” came the answer, upon such an acute nervous centre, that he started as if he had been stung.
He rose, made an effort to compose himself, and went to the door.
A spare tall figure detached itself from the dark, and entered.
“What the devil’s been keeping you?” growled the ex-remover.
“Ah! you’re short-sighted, my friend,” said Mr. Bittern, and walked coolly into the parlour.
Mr. Plumley stared, felt suddenly wet, shook himself, and followed. When it came to creeping flesh, he felt the full aggravation of his size. The slow march of apprehensions, taking time from a sluggish but persistent brain, seemed minutes encompassing him.
“So,” said the lawyer, dry and wintry, the moment he was in, “you coveted your neighbour's one ewe lamb?”