“Messrs Pownall and Skreet.”
Bob had gone very pale during the perusal of this letter. Not only had his house of cards gone down with a flutter—for he could read no compromise here—but he was threatened with the summary vengeance of an unknown and vindictive parent. The stripes that Wagram had laid upon him, now turned to yellow and red bruises, seemed to tingle afresh.
“Is it no good pressing him further, sir?” he stammered. “This may be bluff.”
“Ours was bluff,” sneered Pownall. “I thought it just worth trying on, but only just. Now I see it isn’t. No jury in England would find for you, and we can’t afford to take up such a case.”
“But they paid my sister, sir, almost by return.”
“What?” shouted Pownall, jumping from his chair. “What? Paid in full?”
“Yes. Sent her a cheque for a thousand.”
“But this ought to have gone through us. It’s irregular, damned irregular.”
“So it is, sir. And what’s more irregular, she’s going to return it.”
“Going to return it?”