“He has a long course to run ere that comes,” said the other.
“Not so long as you fancy. There are demands upon him from quarters you little suspect, or that, for the moment, he little suspects himself. It would surprise you to hear that he is in Leicester's hands too.”
“Roland Cashel—Mr. Cashel—in Leicester's hands! How do you mean?”
Just at this instant Linton's foot was heard ascending the stairs, and Cashel, whose eagerness to hear the remainder became a perfect torture of anxiety, was forced to lose the opportunity.
“What a hunt I have had!” said Linton, as he entered, flushed and weary-looking. “Our amount is rather above the ordinary mark, and I found it almost impossible to procure the stamps. Are you tired waiting?”
“No,—nothing to speak of,” said Cashel, confusedly.
“Well, I fancy our friend here has had much more than his share of an audience. I'll see, and unearth him.”
And so saying, Linton knocked with his cane at the door. A low murmuring of voices succeeded, the sound of feet followed, and soon after the door was opened, and a small, thin, pale-faced man in black appeared.
“Good morning, Mr. Hoare. Here have we been playing antechamber to your serene highness for full an hour. This is Mr. Roland Cashel, Mr. Hoare, who wishes to make your acquaintance.”
The little man turned his quick gray eyes towards Cashel with a most scrutinizing keenness; but, as suddenly withdrawing them, invited both to enter.