Peter grew sickly pale. “I’ve—I’ve been—arranging my affairs somewhat,” mumbled he.
Richmond laughed again—cheerily, genially. “This world,” said he, “is peopled by fools. But the biggest fool of all is the fellow who thinks he is a little less of a fool than the others. That seems to fit you, my boy. You must think I was whelped only yesterday. Do you suppose I trust people because I take ’em in with me? Why, I’d have been in the jail or the poorhouse long ago if I had. When I let you in I locked the door behind you. I always do.”
Peter’s hands were trembling so that they shook the stick round which he had them clasped.
“You think you’ve sold out,” continued Richmond. “Instead, you’ll find to-morrow that you still have all you bought through me—and that you’ve got to buy as much more.”
“But I can’t do it,” pleaded Vanderkief—and his voice was not much better than a whine. “I’ve got no ready money. I’d have to sell real estate that’s been in the family from the beginning.”
“I’ll take it on mortgage,” said Richmond reassuringly. “So, you needn’t worry about that, my boy.”
“But we never mortgage!” cried Peter. His face became shiny with sweat. “No, indeed—we never mortgage, Mr. Richmond. I’m much obliged, but we never mortgage.”
“Got to begin some time,” said Richmond. And seeing that his prospective son-in-law was in the proper state of flabbiness, he went back to the point. “Now—as to the trouble between you and Beatrice. Please explain it. Let’s see just what it is.”
“She cares nothing about me.”
“Who says so?”