“You were always a good sort,” Morrison continued, “much too good for me. It was a rotten partnership for you. We could never have pulled together.”
“Let that go,” Laverick interrupted. “If you really mean getting away, that simplifies matters, of course. Have you made any plans at all? Where do you want to go?”
“To New York,” answered Morrison; “New York would suit me best. There is money to be made there if one has something to make a start with.”
“There will be some more money to come to you,” Laverick answered, “probably a great deal more. I shall place our affairs in the hands of an accountant, and shall have an estimate drawn up to yesterday. You shall have every penny that is due to you. You have quite enough, however, to get there with. I will see to your ticket to-night, if possible. When you’ve arrived you can cable me your address, or you can decide where you will stay before you leave, and I will send you a further remittance.”
“You’re a good sort, Laverick,” Morrison mumbled.
“You’d better give me the key of your rooms,” Laverick continued, “and I will go back and put together some of your things. I suppose you will not want much to go away with. The rest can be sent on afterwards. And what about your letters?”
Morrison, with a sudden movement, threw himself almost out of the bed. He clutched at Laverick’s shoulder frantically.
“Don’t go near my rooms, Laverick!” he begged. “Promise me that you won’t! I don’t want any letters! I don’t want any of my things!”
Laverick was dumfounded.
“You mean you want to go away without—”