“It was stated that you were dangerously ill, without hope of recovery,” said Jones, faltering, and with evident awkwardness.
“And not alluded to again?” asked the other, whom there is no need of calling Mr. Linton.
“Yes, once passingly,” said Jones, still faltering.
“How do you mean, passingly?” asked Linton, in anger.
“The Crown lawyers brought forward that note of yours from Ennismore.”
Linton dashed his closed fist against the table, and uttered a horrible and blasphemous oath.
“Some bungling of yours, I'll be sworn, brought this about,” said he, savagely; “some piece of that adroit chicanery that always recoils upon its projector.”
“I 'll not endure this language, sir,” said Jones. “I have done more to serve you than any man would have stooped to in my profession. Unsay those words.”
“I do unsay them. I ask pardon for them, my dear Jones. I never meant them seriously,” said Linton, in that fawning tone he could so well assume. “You ought to know me better than to think that I, who have sworn solemnly to make your fortune, could entertain such an opinion of you. Tell me now of this. Did Cashel say anything as the note was read?”
“Not a syllable.”