“I am quite sure,” said Mowle. “I may as well tell you, sir, that my informant is the confidential clerk to Mr. V.’s solicitors.” He paused a moment. “He owes us a hundred or two——”
“Us?” said Bartley Bradstone, with a frown.
Mr. Mowle coughed and glanced up nervously.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Bartley; I should have said me! He owes me; just so.”
Bartley Bradstone eyed him with suspicious displeasure.
“Look here, Mowle,” he said. “That’s rather an awkward slip of yours. I hope it doesn’t occur with other people. They’ll be asking who the ‘us’ is.”
“No, sir; no, Mr. Bartley, I’m careful. I’m cautious in the extreme. Why, Mr. Bartley, if you think of the years I’ve kept the business dark——”
“I know, I know. I only warned you,” interrupted Bartley Bradstone. “Once let a hint of our connection get abroad, and—well, I think you know the consequences. I’ve still got that interesting little check you so kindly signed with my name.”
Mr. Mowle’s colorless face grew livid, his cadaverous lips twitched, and his bony hands closed convulsively.
“You’ve no reason to fear, Mr. Bartley,” he said, almost inaudibly, his hands shaking.