Bartley Bradstone rose and clutched the back of his chair, and for a moment seemed incapable of speech, and then he said:
“Do you mean to tell me that the shares of the South Indian still stand in my name?”
Mr. Mowle put out one hand.
“No, no, no, Mr. Bradstone, I don’t say that,” he said, with a sudden change of face; “I said I did not receive your letter. Pray take a seat. Pray sit down again, sir, and compose yourself. Fortunately, I have had my eye upon the bank for some time past, and when the critical moment came, I sold out.”
Bartley Bradstone sank into a chair and drew a breath of relief.
“That is well, Mowle,” he said. “You gave me a turn. If you had not unloaded those shares for me, things would have looked bad. Now I want you to realize these things.”
He took a list from his pocket and handed it to Mr. Mowle.
Mr. Mowle went back to the table and examined the list with respectful anxiousness, and as he did so, he put up his hand before his face, which underwent some peculiar changes of expression.
“I think I had better see to some of these things at once, sir,” he said.
“Do,” said Bartley Bradstone, curtly.