Faithfully yours,
BANK OF ENGLAND.
p. p. J. Woodridge Smith.
“One hundred thousand pounds! God bless my soul!” Mr. Bultiwell gasped.
“I shall be at your office, Mr. Pedlar,” Jacob announced, folding up the letters, “at eleven o’clock.”
“It is your intention, I presume,” the accountant enquired, “to pay your debts in full?”
“Certainly,” Jacob replied. “I thought I had made that clear.”
“A very laudable proceeding,” Mr. Pedlar murmured approvingly.
The train was beginning to slacken speed. Jacob rose to his feet.
“I am changing carriages here,” he remarked. “I am obliged to you all for putting up with my company for so long.”
Mr. Bultiwell cleared his throat. There was noticeable in his tone some return of his former pomposity.