He produced a paper with some writing on it as the Squire, slowly unlocking a drawer, produced his chequebook. A moment more and the adventurer could hardly contain his exultation. A cheque for 25,000 pounds was in his hand.
“It will be a satisfaction for you to see me sign this yourself, Squire,” and stooping over the writing-table he affixed his signature. As he did so the door opened, admitting Wagram.
Even had the latter no other reason for coming in, then one glance at his father’s face would have told him that something was very wrong indeed. The Squire seemed to have aged by twenty years.
“Ah, good-morning, Mr Wagram,” said the adventurer cheerily, looking up. “Your father and I have just been getting through a little piece of business together, and we have got through it with complete satisfaction to both parties. Yes; to both parties,” he repeated emphatically.
“May I ask its nature? My father’s business affairs are mine in there days.”
“Ah, but not this one—no, not this one. It’s an exception, believe me,” was the answer, accompanied by a pleasant laugh. “And now I think I will say good-bye.”
“One moment, Mr Develin Hunt,” said Wagram, “but I fear I must detain you a little longer, there is something that needs explanation.”
The other looked at the tall form, literally barring his way, and a ghastly misgiving was upon him. The cheque for 25,000 pounds—would he be forced to disgorge? But he replied, easily, pleasantly:
“Quite a mistake. No explanation needed. Is there, Squire?”
Wagram looked sharply at his father, whose only answer was a feebly-assenting headshake.