“You!” said St. Quentin, in a tone which was not expressive of the keenest pleasure.
“Yes, I, old man. I want to talk to you. By the way, have you sent that note to Fane about the timber?”
“No.”
“You haven’t?”
“No; the truth is, Bridge, I’m getting rather sick of this blackmailing business.”
“You are?” Sir Algernon surveyed the weary, impatient face in silence for a minute. “I wonder if you’d like to try another tack,” he suggested softly. “I’ve had a good deal of cash out of you one way and another, and now you’re—er—er——”
“Dying,” his host supplied the word.
“Well, going to send in your checks some time pretty soon, I suppose?” Sir Algernon amended. “Look here, I know the estate’s heavily encumbered and all that, but I’m not a mercenary man, and the girl’s pretty——”
“Of whom are you speaking?”