Beyond this unpleasant figure she could see a small untidy room with a sloping roof. The floor, the chairs—not common ones but of the early Queen Anne fashion with leathern seats—an old escritoire, were strewn with papers. The occupant and owner was invisible. But she could hear his voice. He was remonstrating with the little man in the doorway.
Lavinia touched the man on the shoulder. He turned, stared and seeing only a pretty girl favoured her with a leer.
"How much does Mr. Vane owe you?" said Lavinia, chinking the coins.
"Eh, my dear? Are you going to pay his debt? Lucky young man. Nine weeks at three shillings a week comes to twenty-seven shillings. There ought to be a bit for the lawyer who wrote the notice to quit. But I'll let you off that because of your pretty face."
Lavinia counted the money into the grimy outstretched paw. Moggs' face wrinkled into a smirk.
"Much obleeged, my young madam. I'll wager as the spark you've saved from being turned into the street'll thank you more to your liking than an old fellow like me could."
Solomon Moggs made a low bow and was turning away when Lancelot Vane suddenly appeared. His face was very pallid and he clutched the door to steady himself. What with his evident weakness and his bandaged head he presented rather a pitiable picture.
"What's all this?" he demanded. "I'm not going to take your money, madam."
"It's not mine," cried Lavinia in a rather disappointed tone. She could see he did not remember her.
"Faith an' that's gospel truth," chuckled Moggs. "It's mine and it's not going into anybody else's pocket." And he hastily shuffled down the staircase.