“Ah! I see,” said Storth; “this is all new to me. You see this was, as you say, before I came into the office, and it appears to have been a private arrangement between you and Mr. Beaumont. A merely verbal arrangement, I understand. You’ve only Mr. Beaumont’s word.”
“That’s all. It’s good enough, isn’t it?”
“Oh, quite so. But we’re all mortal, you know, and I like black and white myself in business. Who’s running the mill now?”
“Aw couldn’t reetly say for sure. But aw yer it’s let off, or part on it is, shoose ha’, i’ room an’ power. Aw nivver bothered my yed abaat it, as long as th’ interest cam’ to hand. But it’s a week o’er due, an’ aw’ve been expectin’ it by ivery post, so aw thowt aw’d better call in an’ see abaat it. Yo’ won’t charge me owt for that, will yo’?” he asked, as a sudden fear seized him.
“No, no, by no means—mortgagor’s costs. Make your mind easy. I’ve no doubt it will be all right when Mr. Beaumont returns. Still…,” and Mr. Storth fingered the seal on his watch-chain, and puckered his brow and pursed his lips and slowly shook his head.
“Still, what?” asked Mr. Schofield, sharply. “There’s nowt wrong, is there?”
“Wrong? No, no, of course not, at least…. well, well. No writing, you say, only Mr. Beaumont’s word; and, of course, Mr. Beaumont’s the soul of honour. You know what the poet says: “So are we all, all honourable men.” Still, three thousand pounds is a tidy bit.”
“Yo’d ’ave thowt so if yo’d had to addle it an’ nip an’ scrat for it same as I had.”
“A very tidy bit. You have the deeds, of course?”
“They’re at the bank.”