In about two hours and a half the house began to show some signs of life. In about three hours, Jacob’s heart gave a little jump as he saw Lady Mary scramble down the little piece of shelving beach and examine the rope by which the boat was secured. She lifted one of the oars, which was still wet, and then without hesitation turned and hurried back to the house. In less than half an hour, he saw her mounted on a rough but useful-looking pony, cantering down the drive. Somehow or other, she seemed to him, even at that moment, like a messenger of hope. An hour later, Montague and Hartwell came strolling down, smoking huge cigars. The latter unfastened the rope and paddled clumsily across. A few minutes later, Jacob heard the turning of the keys in the lock of the outer door and their footsteps ascending the stairs. Montague peered in through the bars. A little cloud of tobacco smoke blew into the place.
“Well, Jacob, my Napoleon of finance, how goes it?” he enquired lightly.
“If you’ll step inside for two minutes, I’ll show you,” Jacob answered.
Mr. Dane Montague chuckled.
“I have never graduated in the fistic arts myself,” he confessed. “Besides, once bit, twice shy, you know. We are going to put this little thing through without any unnecessary risk.”
“What is it?” Jacob demanded. “Money?”
“Money comes in all right,” Hartwell muttered from behind, in an evil tone, “but I guess there’s something more than that coming to you before you quit, Pratt.”
“Why don’t you come in and give it me, then?” Jacob asked. “You’re a bigger man than I am, by a long way.”
“We’re going to wait a bit,” Hartwell retorted with a chuckle. “You’ve been living a little high, Jacob Pratt. We think your system wants lowering.”
“You’re not talking business yet, then?”