“If you please.”
“Run the boat into the hard there, and accompany me to my office. I will hand you the title-deeds of an estate that shall give you a new lease of life.”
CHAPTER III.
Like one who accepts an indifferent gift, rather to pleasure a friend than for his own gratification, Sir Robert Linne held his reprieve in his pocket, as it were, with a careless hand, and, accompanied by the lawyer, re-entered the humming lists of life.
Silently the two made their way westwards, the man of deeds accommodating his pace, with some secret chafing, to the leisurely progress of his companion. Now and again he would glance stealthily aside into the latter’s face, and give a half-comical shrug of chagrin over its expression of tranquil good-humour that seemed such a genial satire upon the situation.
“If he hobnobs with death so calmly, how will his philosophy accept a living estate?” thought the uneasy scrivener; and, “light come, light go,” he groaned in his heart.
Presently they were in Holborn, without the rag of a sentence to pass between them; and so came opposite the block of houses known as Middle Row.
Here suddenly Sir Robert stopped, and took his companion by the arm.
“You itch to improve on the situation,” said he, with a twinkling gravity. “Harkee! Now’s your opportunity. Here am I;—yonder stands Branscome’s lottery office. Draw your moral, my friend, and ease you of your load.”
The lawyer drew in his breath, his face crinkling.