“Yes; he writes to me for some title-deeds or other. I did n't pay much attention, exactly, to what he says. Glen-core's man of business had addressed a letter to him.”
The Russian bowed, and waited for him to resume; but, apparently, he had rather fatigued himself by such unusual loquacity, and so he lay back in his chair, and puffed his cigar in indolent enjoyment.
“A goodish sort of thing for you it ought to be,” said Baynton, between the puffs of his tobacco smoke, and with a look towards Selby.
“I suspect it may,” said the other, without the slightest change of tone or demeanor.
“Where is it,—somewhere in the south?”
“Mostly, Devon. There's something in Wales too, if I remember aright.”
“Nothing Irish?”
“No, thank Heaven,—nothing Irish;” and his grim Lordship made the nearest advance to a smile of which his unplastic features seemed capable.
“Do I understand you aright, my Lord,” said the Prince, “that you receive an accession of fortune by this event?”
“I shall, if I survive Glencore,” was the brief reply.