"There will not be another," she replied. "George Copplestone will marry me—and you shall have your twelve thousand pounds, as I promised. You need not be anxious."
He looked round the luxurious room, and sighed deeply. It surprised her that she had not noticed before how much he had aged.
"I must begin again," he said. "I am getting old—but I will rebuild my fortune. I will not be the only poor Jew in London."
"You have been a good friend to me," she said gently. "I am very sorry."
He paused to finish his drink, but his crafty eyes never left her face. She did not meet them.
"I wonder," he said, in a slightly lower tone, replacing his empty glass on the table, "what the police will discover."
"I should imagine that there is very little to be discovered," she returned. "There seems no doubt that it was James Layton, the Mad Millionaire, as he is called. He will probably be arrested within the next twenty-four hours. It appears to be a clear case. He threatened her—in front of us all. And he was in the garden."
"It ought to be enough," he admitted, more easily. "What more could they want?"
"The evidence is very strong," she said, lazily settling her deshabille. "Many people have been hanged on less. Apparently the police are satisfied. At least, they have not arrested either of us."
The financier started violently.