“Is that all the trouble?”
Christopher looked at him suspiciously. He expected reproaches. That was what he wanted; that would have shamed him, appeased him. It would have relieved him of the weight of responsibility. Otto Füger felt that he had been tactless. He put on a serious, worried expression.
“This is a misfortune. A great misfortune. If the late Mr. Ulwing knew...!”
Yet, he could have said nothing more crushing. Christopher bent his head.
“Don’t think ... I am not bad. I am only unlucky, damned unlucky.”
Young Füger walked up and down the room and seemed deep in thought though he knew full well what he was going to say.
Christopher’s eyes followed his movements with painful attention.
“Help me,” he said hoarsely when silence became insufferable. “Help me, for God’s sake; give me some advice.”
That was exactly what Otto Füger wanted. He looked round cautiously, then stopped in front of his chief’s son.
“The name of Ulwing is good,” he whispered, “in Paternoster Street they will lend on it whatever you want. What are letters of exchange for? Of course, it’s wrong,” he added hastily, “but for once....”