“No, it is you who have reason to fear,” retorted Mr. Bradstone. “I’m a man of my word, as you know, and I mean that if the slightest suspicion is aroused that you are working for me, I hand that check over to the police and send you to penal servitude.”
Mr. Mowle nodded.
“I know you will, sir,” he said, moistening his lips, “and I am cautious accordingly. I think you’ll admit that, Mr. Bartley? For nearly twelve years I’ve worked for you, and thousands upon thousands have passed through these hands”—he extended them—“and every penny has been accounted for. And no one—no one, Mr. Bartley—has ever heard me mention your name, or suspected that you were my master.”
Mr. Bradstone nodded.
“It’s well for you they haven’t,” he said, coldly. “It is more important than ever that our connection should be kept dark. I don’t like the risk of your coming here even.”
“I’ve been very careful,” said Mowle, meekly; “I didn’t give the servant my name. I said I’d brought a note from your London tailor.”
Mr. Bradstone nodded.
“Yes, and you’re right in going back to-night. Now take my instructions.”
Mr. Mowle took out his pencil, and looked up at his master with a dogged intentness.
“Buy Mr. V.’s debts,” said Bartley Bradstone, coolly, but with his eyes downcast.