“There it is!”
And, as he spoke, he drew from his breast-pocket a large square-shaped letter, massively sealed, and after showing the address, “Miss Luttrell,” on the cover, he replaced it in his pocket.
“Do you know what’s in it?” asked Ladarelle, sharply.
“Only that there’s money, that’s all, for he said to me, ‘Any banker will cash it.’”
Ladarelle took a couple of turns of the room without speaking; then, coming directly in front of the other, he said:
“Now, then, Mr. O’Rorke, which horse do you back? Where do you stand to win? I mean, are you going to serve Sir Within or me?”
“He is the bird in the hand, any way!” said O’Rorke, with a grin of malicious meaning.
“Well, if you think so, I have no more to say, only that as shrewd a man as you are might see that an old fellow on the verge of the grave is not likely to be as lasting a friend as a man like myself. In other words, which life would you prefer in your lease?”
O’Rorke made no answer, but seemed sunk in thought.
“I’ll put the case before you in three words. You might help this girl in her plans—you might aid her so far that she could come back here, and remain either as this old man’s wife or mistress—I don’t know that there would be much difference, in fact, as the law stands, between the two—but how long would you be a welcome visitor here after that? You speculate on being able to come, and go, and stay here just as you please; you’d like to have this place as a home you could come to whenever you pleased, and be treated not merely with respect and attention, but with cordiality. Now, I just ask you, from what you have yourself told me of this girl, is that what you would expect when she was the mistress? Is she so staunch to her own people, that she would be true to you?”