“Had not our friend L'Estrange an interest in this unfortunate speculation?” asked Bramleigh.
“A trifle,—a mere trifle. Two thousand I think it was. Two, or two-five-hundred. I forget exactly which.”
“And is this entirely lost?”
“Well, pretty much the same; they talk of sevenpence dividend, but I suspect they 're over-sanguine. I 'd say five was nearer the mark.”
“Do they know the extent of their misfortune?” asked Ellen, eagerly.
“If they read the 'Times' they 're sure to see it. The money article is awfully candid, and never attempts any delicate concealment like the reports in a police-court. The fact is, Miss Bramleigh, the financial people always end like Cremorne, with a 'grand transparency' that displays the whole company!”
“I 'm so sorry for the L'Estranges,” said Ellen, feelingly.
“And why not sorry for Tom Cutbill, miss? Why have no compassion for that gifted creature and generous mortal, whose worst fault was that he believed in a lord?”
“Mr. Cutbill is so sure to sympathize with himself and his own griefs that he has no need of me; and then he looks so like one that would have recuperative powers.”
“There, you 've hit it,” cried he, enthusiastically. “That 's it! that's what makes Tom Cutbill the man he is,—flectes non frangis. I hope I have it right; but I mean you may smooth him down, but you can't smash him; and it 's to tell the noble Viscount as much I 'm now on my way to Italy. I 'll say to the distinguished peer, 'I 'm only a pawn on the chess-board; but look to it, my Lord, or I 'll give check to the king!' Won't he understand me? ay, in a second, too!”