“Oh, it’s the viscount!” observed Bulger, after a full minute’s reflection. “Yes, sir, he’s in. Do you wish to see him?”
“Of course, Bulger; most important. Here is half-a-crown to expedite your movements, old man.”
Bulger took the coin between the dirty fingers of his right hand, and smiled a wooden smile.
“Thank you, viscount. I hope you are able to settle with him now.”
He laid particular stress upon the word “now,” and Rivington understood that things looked pretty bad.
“Announce me,” was all he said, again caressing the spot where his revolver lay hidden.
He watched the huge form of Bulger disappear within a farther room, and wondered why the man, who was by courtesy called the “clerk,” did not strangle the life out of old Isaacs.
Bulger reappeared, and beckoned to Rivington with one of his forefingers, supplementing this with a jerk of his thumb toward the room occupied by the money-lender.
The viscount went in, closed the door behind him, and dropped languidly into a chair, directly opposite an old man, whose features at once proclaimed him a Jew. He was attired in a greasy suit of black, which had evidently done duty for ten years, at least. His linen and flesh were equally as dirty as Mr. Bulger’s own, but, unlike his clerk, he wore a magnificent diamond ring upon one hooked finger. His nose was like the beak of a hawk, his eyes deep-set and close together, while his mouth was full and large, surrounded by a closely-cropped beard and mustache, as white as snow.
He glanced up at Rivington with a wolfish grin that disclosed two rows of broken, yellow teeth, and said in cackling tones: