“That may come,” his brother predicted, stretching out his hand towards the cigarette box. “We can’t go on much longer without money, can we, Borroughes?”
“It is a difficult proposition, Sir Bertram,” the agent replied gravely.
“Swindling to a city millionaire is second nature,” Sir Bertram sighed; “financial acumen, I believe it is called. A county squire, however, finds few opportunities.—Off already, Borroughes?” he added, as the latter approached with outstretched hand.
“If you will excuse me, Sir Bertram. It’s a darkish ride home and I have a sale in Norwich to-morrow and some accounts to look through to-night. Glad to see you back again, Mr. Gregory. Good night, Mr. Ballaston.”
“I will accompany you to the door,” Henry Ballaston announced, rising to his feet. “I may possibly not return,” he added, turning to his brother. “You will naturally have a great deal to say to Gregory.”
The two men left the room together. Gregory took an easy-chair with his back to the Image. His father refilled his glass with liqueur brandy, drew a box of cigarettes to his side and seated himself opposite his son. These were almost their first few minutes alone.
“Well, Gregory, old man, you couldn’t quite bring it off then?” he observed.
“Not quite, sir,” his son acknowledged. “We did our best.”
“No doubt about that. You had a narrow shave of it, as it was.”
“And all for nothing, I am afraid.”